


Mnemosyne

by Lywinis



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Banishment, M/M, Memory Alteration, Post-Good Omens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: It took Heaven and Hell almost a decade to sort the paperwork from Armageddon-that-wasn't. Their respective sides are still smarting from the blow to their egos. Gabriel and Beelzebub need a scapegoat. They want vengeance. They come to an agreement.Crowley and Aziraphale need to be shuffled out of the way so that Armageddon can begin properly. They can't afford another cock-up like last time. Their solution?The duo's powers are bound to their vessels, their memories wiped, and their existence forgotten by everyone who knew them.





	1. Punishment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>      _For all the things my hands have held,
>     The best by far is you._
>     

**[The Sahara Desert, Nine Years After the Abotchalypse]**

The desert was lit with a million points of light, a swathe of stars blanketing the sky in a glittering canopy. It was the gorgeous sort of night that Crowley lived for, the sky swirled a deep blue and purple that were almost black, if he tuned out his preternatural senses and just…beheld them like a human would.

It would have been perfect, standing here with Aziraphale.

A breeze blew through the desert, biting and cold. Crowley felt it ruffle through his hair, smelling of dry earth. Far away, somewhere to the west, there was an oasis. He could smell the water, the green and growing things.

The stars were beautiful.

Not such a bad place to meet his end, whatever it was. At least he and the angel were together.

In hindsight, perhaps that was why both sides had waited so long. Perfect timing.

Perfect everything, save for the ten feet of distance between them and the roar of hellfire that surrounded Aziraphale. He didn’t dare take more of a step, because the scent of holy water near his feet already made his skin itch. The trench was shallow, filled with the glittering substance, clear and impossibly cold.

The firelight threw wicked shadows on the dunes around them, the sand cool and sucking at his ankles even as he fought to keep the holy water at bay, seeping into the sand around him, a slow death awaiting him should he stop concentrating on pushing the sand together as hard as he could with each breath he had.

Gabriel and Beelzebub were alone, no other denizens of Heaven or Hell there to speak with them.

“Gentlemen,” Gabriel began in a faux-cheerful voice. “So nice of you to join us.”

“Cut the shit,” Crowley hissed.

“Rude as always,” Gabriel said, making a ‘tsk’ noise at the back of his throat.

“Side effect of dealing with pricks with wings,” Crowley shot back.

He could feel the heat of the sand around his feet and ankles, blistering the skin as it fused to glass with his efforts.

“I could say the same, Crowley,” Beelzebub said, their dark eyes glittering in the light from the hellfire. Almost multifaceted, as though they were an insect themselves. Perhaps their true form shining through, but Crowley had avoided Beelzebub as much as he possibly could on his jaunts Downstairs, for good reason.

“I see you kept your wings,” they noted, as though they could see the blackened feathers for themselves, despite Crowley keeping them carefully tucked away. Their words buzzed with contempt, a pulsing, disgusting feeling that crawled on his skin and threatened to make a home there.

Crowley sketched a rather sarcastic bow as his feet burned.

“Why do this?” Aziraphale asked, the initial surprise having worn off at last. “It’s over. Adam is university aged, now. He’s settled into being—well, mostly—human.”

Crowley could see the flicker of shadows playing across the dunes; Aziraphale’s wings fluttered, itching to stretch and carry them both out. He knew that if the angel tried, they’d both be cinders.

“Armageddon may have been avoided,” Gabriel said, as though feeling like he’d lost control of the situation and thus speaking was his way of arresting the room again. “But both of you have avoided what was a proper punishment for you both. Through your incompetence and outright rebellion, you not only aborted the end of the world, but brought relative peace to the world for almost a decade. Even old tensions died down to a fraction of what they were.”

“Disgusting,” Beelzebub said, making a face.

“I should think that would rather be a good thing?” Aziraphale said. “In the effort of the greater—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Gabriel said.

Aziraphale’s voice died, and his mouth worked for a moment. Crowley’s lips writhed back from his teeth in a snarl and—

“There it is,” Beelzebub said. “You were right.”

“Let me just soak that in,” Gabriel said for a moment, walking around Crowley, his smile beatific and smug. “The Lord of the Pit admitting that I was right.”

“Don’t let it go to your head or anything,” Beelzebub muttered.

Gabriel leaned closer, almost conspiratorial. “You see, that was your mistake, Crowley. You cared too much.”

He tossed Crowley a little book. Crowley caught it on reflex. Looking down at the cover, he saw that it was a photo album. Tastefully done, if someone was into high profile leather photo albums, he supposed.

“Go on, open it,” Gabriel said, his eyes crinkling at the corners, like he’d caught them being naughty and stealing cookies.

Crowley shifted around in the sand, his glass wall holding the holy water at bay for now, and opened the book. Pictures of Aziraphale strapped to the chair, pictures of him being cut loose and told to enter the pillar of hellfire.

Pictures of him, in fact.

“Yeah, mhm, keep going,” Gabriel said, making a circular, impatient gesture with his index finger. “Right there, last page.”

There, reflected in the hellfire, Crowley’s snake-like gaze stared at Gabriel with unbridled hatred.

“Ah, there we are,” Gabriel said, a small smile playing about his mouth. “You see, something struck me as being funny while I was meting out Aziraphale’s proper judgment.”

He pronounced it differently than Crowley always had, how Aziraphale himself had. Emphasis on the last bit, twisting it so that it came out _fail_. Crowley sneered at him again. Gabriel turned to Aziraphale, strolling around the flaming circle – but not too close, Crowley noticed.

He was still afraid. How very human of the archangel. It would be ironic, if he had any appreciation for the stuff right now.

"You're soft, Aziraphale. You know, a coward. Oh, you're good at looking the part but when it comes time to actually get your hands dirty, well...you just don't have it in you, do you? You just want to play nice and fix boo-boos. So much happier with your books and your food, profaning your vessel with earthly delights. At first we thought it was you going native to keep your cover.”

Gabriel made a show of shuddering. Crowley had no doubt Gabriel held a deep-seated disgust of anything human. It made the aforementioned irony just a little more palatable.

“But it’s why that look bothered me. You see, I know for a fact that you don't have the spine to ever dare look at anyone, never mind _me_ , like that, so obviously I knew something had to be wrong. If it were up to me, you never would've been issued so much as a flaming _pencil_ , much less a sword and a body."

Aziraphale blinked owlishly at Gabriel. "Well, they do say that 'the pen is mightier than the sword' so perhaps—"

"Shut—your **_stupid_** —mouth." Gabriel’s voice cracked out over the desert, sending some sand spilling from the nearby dunes.

Crowley barked a laugh. The situation was serious, of course it was, but he would never not approve of Aziraphale being so _Aziraphale_ that it irritated someone into shouting. Usually him, but that fact was conveniently forgotten in the face of Gabriel’s temper.

Oh, he loved his angel, even in these moments. It was a pity he’d been working up to telling him that. Surely, he knew; the angel could smell love like a bloodhound on a scent, enjoyed soaking it up when he found happiness, recharging by proxy. But it would have been nice to have known how it would have sounded coming from his own mouth.

Maybe the angel might’ve even said it back.

Eventually.

Well, that was neither here nor there, now.

He’d been their undoing. It had always been difficult for him to keep his eyes under control. Being so long without his sunglasses was a chore, and he’d let it slip. It was his fault.

He tried not to dwell on that too much.

“We’ve decided to make an example of you,” Gabriel said. His gaze returned to Crowley, the almost impossibly purple gaze both indifferent and yet burrowing into his whole existence. An old trick, one vaguely remembered before Crowley had taken his fateful saunter downward to where he was now.

“Oh, have you?” Crowley asked. He tried for bored, ended up mildly apathetic, and decided that it would have to do. He dropped his sunglasses, lambent golden eyes meeting purple in obvious challenge.

“We have,” Gabriel said. If the staring unnerved him, there was no indication. “And your little rebellion ends now. We’ve decided that killing you is too…permanent. Good punishment should last a while, according to everything we’ve learned.”

“Everything _you_ learned, you mean,” Beelzebub said. “I’d been telling you this since Armageddon wasn’t.”

“Beside the point,” Gabriel said, waving a hand. “No, we’ve been thinking about this for a while. We realized that killing you, that scrubbing you from existence, it would just make martyrs of you. Impressionable young cherubs and…little…”

He looked at Beelzebub, who seemed to be enjoying the way Gabriel squirmed, because they were no help at all.

“…baby…demons? Demonlets? Hm. Anyway. They’d try to follow in your footsteps. The problem with that is, we have rules for a reason. We have sides for a reason. Reasons you two completely eschewed in the face of Armageddon, causing a pile up of paperwork, waste of resources, and a general decline in efficiency.”

“Heaven forbid,” Crowley said, though the phrase made bile rise in his mouth.

Gabriel fixed him with a look.

“I have authorization from the head office—”

“I’ve got it from ours.”

“—to enact a punishment I feel is suitable for you two.” Gabriel continued talking, as though Beelzebub had never interrupted him. “We’re sealing your powers.”

“Our—can you do that?” Aziraphale asked.

“I can, sunshine.” Gabriel gestured at the ring of hellfire. “The Metatron agrees with me. You’ve overstepped your bounds in such a way as to initiate a Fall. In fact, we’re rather shocked you haven’t. We’re assuming it was your cowardice that kept you just on this side of the rules.”

He strolled between the two rings, fire and water.

“We’re binding your powers. I don’t have the option of removing your immortality, but…I think it fits with what I have in mind.”

He smiled. There was no comfort in this angel’s smile. Not like Aziraphale’s. But perhaps that was because Crowley had never met someone quite like the angel before. Everyone else would fall short.

“The answer was so obvious this whole time,” Gabriel said with a little chuckle. “I don’t have to punish you, because you’ll do it for me.”

Crowley was getting antsy, but he wasn’t about to push Gabriel, not with Aziraphale so close to the hellfire.

“You two love your precious humans so much, with their books and their sushi and their sins, you can live among them, as one of them.” Gabriel gestured, encompassing the world around him. “No powers, no wings, I’m binding both. And especially no memories of who you were before. I’m taking those, too.”

All of his memories of Aziraphale, gone.

“You get to live. If that’s any real consolation.”

Maybe it was.

Maybe it was enough. To exist in the same world as Aziraphale, though they’d look through each other time and time again, passing like ships in the night. Maybe it was enough to know that somewhere out there, Aziraphale was alive.

He could go on if that was the case.

Crowley couldn’t meet the angel’s gaze over the flickering hellfire. He _couldn’t_. This was all his fault. If he’d had more control—

“It took some time to get the forms drawn up between our respective legal teams, so I hope your affairs are in order.”

“Mine are never in order,” Crowley said. He shrugged.

He thought of his Bentley. And who would yell at his plants? He’d done without them before, of course. He could make do again. Eventually.

“The bookshop—” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt a pinch of regret, then.

“—will be a fine addition to Heaven’s home bases, tended by another angel and relocated out of Soho.” Gabriel said. “It’s not yours, anymore.”

Beelzebub, thus far motionless next to Gabriel’s restless pacing, moved around to the opposite sides of the circles. “It’s time, Gabriel. Our offices gave us a small window for this.”

Gabriel mirrored them, standing equidistant from them, and Crowley realized that Gabriel had been pacing out sigils in the sand. Sealing sigils, something to bind them and blast their memories into fragments, push it into a locked box from where there was no escape.

They nodded to each other. Gabriel’s eyes drifted from Aziraphale to Crowley.

“Any last words, gentlemen?” he asked. “Last chance.”

Crowley’s gaze met Aziraphale’s across the expanse, his heart thudding in his chest as he took one good, last look. Though it wouldn’t do him much good, he wanted this one sealed away just like the others.

_I love you. I think I’ve always loved you._

Crowley’s breath froze in his throat. He lifted his hand, extended it to Aziraphale, his smile soft. He only had eyes for Aziraphale. It was the only way to do this.

“To the world, angel.” It was all he could say. Hopefully it would be enough. Hopefully Aziraphale would understand. Hopefully, eventually, he’d be forgiven.

Aziraphale’s expressive cupid’s bow mouth opened, his lips trembling, but he straightened his spine. Hellfire illuminated the tracks of tears down his face as he extended his hand to Crowley, but the angel’s smile was just as soft as his own, the hazel eyes fixed on nothing but Crowley. That chill wind whipped through the desert again, ruffling white-blond curls and making Crowley ache to be closer.

Aziraphale nodded. He was ready.

“To the world,” he said. “ _Crowley_.”

Two sets of fingers snapped in unison.

 

* * *

 

The day you plant the seed is not the day you eat the fruit.

 

* * *

 

Ezra Fell had burnt his breakfast, ambitiously attempting to cook something more complex than tea and toast, but it was all right. He could pop down to the shop on the other end of the street and get something hot to eat later today.

Still, the experience was an adventure, he thought, adjusting his bow tie as he came downstairs. He was getting better, maybe? At least the eggs hadn’t had shells in them this time.

He was a slightly chubby man in his mid-forties, with locks of impossible to tame white-blond hair that made him almost cherubic. Favoring sweaters and button downs with a bow-tie and oxfords, brown eyes usually hidden behind a pair of spectacles as he read forms and titles and book spines. An altogether unassuming man, if you were to ask him.

No one asked him.

He opened the shop, getting ready for the day by setting out the table of half-priced books in the center of the floor. The children’s reading area had been tidied, and he readied all the little treats he and Rafael had decided to keep for those who were diligent with their love of reading and care of books. Plastic toys, small baubles, really, but it made them happy. That was enough.

D’Angelo Books was a little shop on the corner of the busiest shopping street in Soho, and that meant that they did brisk business. It was essential that there were two of them, at least, though on the holidays there were at least three of them to cover the rush.

It was nice, though, sharing his love of reading with so many people. He just wished that the public in general treated books with a little more respect. They were rough on new books—some to the point that Ezra hadn’t wanted to sell to them at all.

Rafael was good at smoothing those customers over, though. The bell jingled over the door of the shop, admitting the man in question. Olive-skinned, with bright and inquisitive brown eyes and a curly mop of salt and pepper hair, Rafael had been Ezra’s friend as well as his boss as long as he could remember. Kind and gentle, with a cheeky sense of humor, Rafael had been generous enough to rent the apartment above the shop to him as well as letting him earn pocket money by keeping things in order when he wasn’t able to be there.

It left him with enough to make ends meet and save a little for trips to places he’d never been, so he could try the food. He’d always dreamed of being able to go wherever he wanted, to eat new and interesting things, to enjoy the love that people put into the craft of cooking. The modern term was ‘foodie’, but Ezra had always considered himself more of a ‘gourmand’.

“Good morning,” Ezra said, beaming at Rafael. “I was just about to put the kettle on.”

“Excellent,” Rafael said, smiling back. “I brought _bomboloni_.”

Ezra felt his heart flutter. “I’ve never tried them, did you really?”

“I thought they might be a treat.” Rafael held up the paper sack. Sniffing the air, he paused. “You burnt your eggs again.”

Ezra shuffled for the kettle, going bright red. “A little.”

“Ah, _fratellino_ , there’s no harm done,” he said, smiling. “You’re still learning, like we all are!”

That was what Ezra liked best about Rafael. Never judgment, not too harsh, anyway, but gentle guidance where it was deserved. Ezra had never really had an older brother, but he’d want it to be Rafael.

They talked about their plans for the day while Ezra made the tea, and when they’d finished their preparations for the day, he and Rafael each had a small plate of _bomboloni_ in hand with their mugs. The little doughnuts were light and airy, and Ezra closed his eyes, licking a little of the Chantilly cream from his upper lip.

“These are amazing,” he said, just enjoying the flavor with a rapturous expression. “Just scrumptious.”

“I’m glad you like them,” Rafael said, laughing quietly. “My mama would have liked you.”

Ezra went red, hiding his face by taking a healthy sip of his tea. It was a joke, long ago, that Ezra was Rafael’s little brother on sight, because he hadn’t had anyone else. Now, it just made him pleased to hear things like that. Two lonely souls in the world, finding companionship.

By the end of breakfast, however, it was time for work. Ezra moved to the front door, breathing in the comforting smell of tea and paper and ink. He peered out the window and flipped the sign. There was the briefest hesitation as he scanned the street corner.

He should feel fulfilled, right? Content.

There was still something missing.

Sometimes he got headaches, staring out at the street as though waiting for someone. Someone to return, someone to…something. It made his eyebrows pinch in a frown and he shook his head.

Ezra moved away from the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rafael is based on a thought I had in regards to Oscar Isaac needing to be somewhere in here. He's a good boy. He's also based on the idea that Oscar Isaac looks [absolutely cuddly](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DZdnHbMW0AE1jU2.jpg) in a sweater. I regret nothing. (You can consider him the face claim, because I do.)
> 
> So, this is going to be a longer work, but I want to set update expectations, as I am currently working close to 60 hours a week. Updates will be rather sporadic - but my gosh, I do appreciate you stopping in to read my work. I hope you'll check out [Sing to Me, O Solomon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19189150/chapters/45615982) \- my other work in this fandom.
> 
> And if you like my work, please check out [there'll be talk of what this is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19277032/chapters/45845644) by the estimable Bearfeathers, and the body of [Kamibanani's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamibanani/pseuds/kamibanani) work - both Good Omens centric and both very close and dear to my heart.


	2. Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       _The space you used to fill is now this great black hole
>     Oh, you're out of sight but not out of my mind_
>     

**[500 BC, the Fertile Crescent]**

“Rather funny how we keep crossing each other’s paths, don’t you think?” Crawly said. The angel in question didn’t break his vigil from where he stood on the bank of the Euphrates, watching the humans toil at their own gardens across the bank.

“Not really,” Aziraphale said. “I’m meant to thwart you, you know. Smite you before you have your wicked ways with the humans.”

Crawly couldn’t help but grin, his amusement only seeming to embarrass the angel.

“Well,” he said, his voice drawing out the ‘L’ sound until it was more of a question. “You could thwart me, or you could come with me and let me show you something.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” Aziraphale cut him a suspicious look.

“Because it’s something that you’d enjoy, but then, maybe not. Maybe I’ll go back to making shepherds fall asleep so their sheep get lost.” He shrugged.

“You really don’t have anything better to do? Major evils to influence?”

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’ sound deliberately, as though struggling to be casual.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked. He could tell the angel was wavering; the curiosity on his face matched his own, at least it had, long ago.

“Well, they’re putting down the words they speak on clay tablets,” Crawly said. “I thought you might be interested. The Word might get lost in translation if all they had to rely on is…me.”

Aziraphale gasped, and Crawly could practically hear the indignation in the noise. “You _wouldn’t!_ ”

“Wouldn’t I?” Crawly said. He grinned. “You’re right, of course, but you should probably do some editing regardless. They’re getting things wrong.”

“Crawly.” The demon only chuckled. “You’re terrible.”

The tension between them eased somewhat.

“Will you come see?” he asked. “They’re doing interesting things with grapes. Making a drink with them, it’s…mm. I know you used to eat, though I don’t know if you do that anymore.”

“How did you know I used to eat?” The angel asked.

Crawly just grinned. “I had a posting in the garden too, angel. I spent lots of time watching and waiting for an opening.”

Aziraphale flushed. “Well, I—”

“I’ll spot you,” he said, abruptly. “Come enjoy yourself, for once on this miserable mudball.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, but he followed, and that was what Crawly had wanted.

* * *

It’s a dark place. You haven’t been buried. You’ve been planted. _Grow_.

* * *

Anthony Crowley didn’t often visit book shops. He was far too busy to read, usually finding more fulfillment in a pint after work and a footie match on the telly. Either that, or he was handling problem children in the greenhouse he’d built in his back garden. He didn’t have much time for books when plants decidedly did not realize they weren’t growing to their full potential.

Well, it was a good thing that Tony was very capable of reminding them.

It was telling, then, that he was strolling the streets of Soho looking for one particular book shop. He had a specific volume on order and the email that it had arrived had reached his phone. A book on rebuilding older engines, his favorite thing. There was something soothing about getting deep into the guts of a machine, taking it apart, and finding out how it worked. Answering the eternal question—why had this broken?

Perhaps that’s why he’d chosen to be a mechanic out of school. He’d lucked into working on a friend’s antique Invicta, which had turned into a restoration project, which had become a sort of business. He’d managed to open his own shop, catering to people who liked their cars with a spot of age on them, but wanted them to look like they’d been owned from new. His waiting list was three months out and they signed up for a slot cheerfully, because he brought engines back to life with his bare hands and his determination.

He just wished he knew what was wrong with his own car. A Bentley, parked in his garage for what felt like a score of years, the engine in varying states of disarray as he tried to piece together what the issue was. It was hard work, but he was hoping this volume on various Bentleys throughout the years and their mechanical issues could help him solve his own problem.

It was a little like the poor old girl had lost her will to get up and go. He hadn’t had any trouble getting the engine put back together, there were no leaks or other damage, but she just wouldn’t start. She’d lost her spark—and yes, yes, he’d checked the battery. Several times.

She was a beautiful car, had only one other owner besides him, the name smudged with what looked like soot. Tony had never bothered to check, because the previous owner had loved the car. That much was obvious.

Absolute nut about Queen, too. He was constantly cleaning the CD cases out of the car. It was like they multiplied when he wasn’t looking. Every variation of their greatest hits, tucked into out of the way places and always seeming to pop out when he least expected it.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face as the bookshop came into view. He got tired so easily these days. The headaches had been getting more frequent, but the doctors hadn’t been able to pinpoint a reason. All of his scans and tests were coming up clean. He could feel the beginnings of a migraine pulling at the muscle behind his eyes, the bright summer sun making him squint and pat his pocket for his ever-present pair of sunglasses, mirrored aviators that hid his eyes. He slid them on over his face as he pushed open the door to D’Angelo Books and stepped inside.

It was dim and cool, the chill of the air conditioning rolling over his skin. He had a vague sense of dizziness, something he attributed to the change in temperature.

_The last time I was in here—_

But he hadn’t ever been in here. His brows pinched behind his sunglasses, but he pushed through the vague sense of discombobulation. After a moment, it passed, and he breathed in a steadying breath.

The shop was old, with good polished wood and brightly lit shelves full of books of all kinds. It smelled like new paper, in the slightly off way that new books have before they settle, like they’re still waiting on the press of an owner’s hand. The counter was polished wood as well, featuring the oldest cash register Tony had ever seen. It was bookended by a more modern iPad, set in a holder to function as an inventory and cash register. He’d been seeing them pop up all over the place, from coffee shops to hair salons.

He couldn’t help but feel like it was out of place here.

The man working behind the counter smiled when he saw him; it was a nice smile, one full of mischief if you knew where to look, and Tony knew where to look. An olive complexion was complemented by dark brown eyes, laugh lines making them seem much older than they probably were, partially hidden by somewhat unruly salt and pepper curls. He was dressed comfortably in a cardigan with a button-down shirt, and he put away his tea mug before turning to address him.

While it occurred to Tony that it might be a little warm for a cardigan, the chill in the shop must get to the man more than the customers, in hindsight.

“Good afternoon,” he said, the accent placing him as foreign. Tony thought perhaps Spain, maybe Italy. His name tag listed him as ‘Rafael’. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I had a book on order,” Tony said. “Should be under Anthony Crowley.”

“Ah, of course,” Rafael said. “One moment, Mister Crowley, let me see if it’s in.”

He reached over, turning the tablet toward him, his fingers tracing over his inventory. A frown drew his brows down and he set the tablet aside.

“Let me check my deliveries,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

Tony nodded, finally enjoying the coolness of the bookshop since he’d become accustomed to it. He wandered over to the section labeled fiction.

Lot of bibles.

He grinned to himself. Someone here had a sense of humor.

The shop itself was bustling, with several people browsing, and it was indeed larger than it looked like from outside. Must extend into the rear of the building, Tony thought, as he strolled among the stacks. There was a children’s area, complete with squashy bean bags and a larger adult chair for readings. A meeting room, it looked like, with signs posted for rates by the hour to reserve the space.

All in all, it wasn’t a standard shop at all.

Tony circled back around, having plucked down a couple of detective thrillers that caught his eye with either cover or premise. He might read them later, but they were on offer, so that was reason enough to be tempted, he supposed.

Rafael brightened when he saw him, bustling over to the counter.

“I’m afraid your book was mistakenly not in this shipment, but they didn’t update the tracking list until now,” he said. His voice was apologetic. “But I have word from my supplier that they rush ordered it for you and it will be here by tomorrow.”

“Oh,” he said. He tried not to sound disappointed, but he didn’t quite manage it.

“I’ll have my assistant keep an eye out for it and he’ll ring you when it’s in.”

“Mm, that’s all right, then.” Tony nodded to himself. “I’ll be by to pick it up, then.”

“Can I check those out for you instead?” he asked.

“What?” He glanced down, having completely forgotten he had plucked the books from the shelves. “Oh, right, yeah. Here.”

He set them up on the counter and Rafael scanned them through, placing them in a neat little paper bag with the shop’s logo on it. The name D’Angelo had stylized wings around it. A bit corny, but the workers were nice.

“You garden?” Rafael asked. Tony stared at him.

“What?”

“Do you garden?” Rafael asked. “You’ve got dirt smudges on your knees like you work with plants.”

“Oh, uh. I have houseplants.”

Tony glanced down at his jeans. Possibly from the shop, possibly from his back garden. He wasn’t particular about clothes he was working in, because it meant that the job was getting done. Dressing up was for dates and special occasions, and Tony really didn’t do either. He liked clothes, but there was hardly enough time in the day to peacock, especially when there was no one to do it for—so he kept his closet divided, with clothing he usually wore and special occasional things to the side, just in case.

“Well, we’ve got a fairly extensive gardening section, when you come back, next time.” Rafael beamed at him.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, receiving his change. Rafael was assuming a lot, thinking there’d be a next time.

What an odd little shop.

* * *

Ezra let himself into the shop. The lights were still on, which meant that Rafael was in the back and working on inventory.

“Hello?” he called.

“In storage!” Rafael returned. His voice echoed oddly, which meant he was downstairs.

Ezra locked the door, making sure that the sign was firmly in place and flipped to ‘Closed’.

The shop was indeed larger than most people expected, with a basement subsection used for storage and sometimes as a meeting place for the local group that Ezra mentored. Young teens that were lost, for whatever reason, who decided that they needed a safe space to be themselves. Not exclusively catering to those of them questioning their sexuality, it was still a big factor in who ended up staying.

He loved Wednesday nights for that, especially; they’d gather at the shop and talk about what had been going on that week. It was cozy, a place for teens and young adults to feel like they belonged, and Ezra took the responsibility seriously.

Ezra padded down the stairs, moving past their meeting room, and found Rafael pulling books from boxes, a list in one hand.

“How did it go?” he asked, smiling over his work at Ezra.

“It…went.” Ezra winced. While he’d been a nice man, it wasn’t exactly what he’d been looking for. For one thing, he’d seemed to be far too excitable. Talking and flirting and generally flustering poor Ezra, who’d just been wanting to have a conversation and a nice meal.

He’d been handsome in his tweed and bowtie, however.

Hopefully the dear man found what he was looking for, because his grand romantic gestures had only made Ezra feel like it was some sort of performance. Like he wasn’t the focus, but the gesture itself was.

He rubbed at his face, sighing.

“I take it that means you won’t be seeing him again,” Rafael said, his knowing look directed at his list rather than Ezra himself.

“I…well. Not romantically.” Ezra gave a sad sigh. “The one-date wonder continues.”

“Well, it’s not a bad thing,” Rafael said. “You had a nice time, he was a gentleman, and you got home safe.”

“That’s true,” Ezra said. “He was a nice man, but just…not for me. The restaurant was just lovely, too.”

It had been a delightful meal, Osso Buco alla Milanese with a dish of tirimasu, he’d almost felt like he was waddling back to the shop. Hardly a walk of shame, that.

“Ah, a bright side!” Rafael said, smiling. Ezra couldn’t help but smile back. Rafael had a way of making things seem like it would all work out. Tireless optimist, that man.

“What are you working on?”

“Deliveries for tomorrow. I’m going to have to leave for an appointment in the middle of the day, so I thought I’d set them out so you could handle them tomorrow.”

“Oh. Can I help?” he asked.

“Of course, _fratellino._ Take half.” He tore the list in twain, handing Ezra the slip of paper. “Oh, you’ll probably want to keep an eye out for a book being delivered rush tomorrow. Mister Crowley was in for it today and it was late. You’ll want to ring him when it arrives. I left details on a note taped to the counter.”

“All right,” he said, running his fingers over the spines of the books lovingly. This was where he was happiest, if he was honest with himself. Books didn’t judge him for his peculiarities, or expect more out of him than he was willing to give. It was enough just to be himself.

It passed by in quiet conversation, nothing too deep even as the clock ticked towards ten. Soon enough, however, they were finished, each stack labeled for the new owners and set on a pick up table behind the counter. Rafael bid him good night, and Ezra locked the door behind him.

It was, however, the quiet that got to him, then. When the lights were off in the shop below and he trudged up the stairs to his little apartment, all on his lonesome. It was lovely, most times, to have his own time to devote to reading. Lately, however, a string of failed dates made him wonder if being solitary was…someone’s design for him.

He’d never been particularly religious, but it was something worth thinking about, the push and pull of the universe, delightful coincidences and chance meetings. Ezra was something of a romantic, at heart.

Soft.

But it felt like the push and pull of the universe was around him, rather than through him. Like he was an unchanging stone, with his out of date fashion sense and his old-fashioned morality. Half his dates had been a bust because he’d simply turned down the idea of a fling, leaving his companions when they’d proposed he come upstairs or invite them to his.

Maybe that was fate’s way of telling him that he wasn’t meant to survive in this new, fast-paced world.

“Well, that’s depressing,” he said, the volume of his voice like a shock to the system. He bustled about, making himself a cup of tea and settling into his favorite squashy armchair. “Surely that’s not the case. I just have to have faith.”

That would have to be enough, at least for now.

Ezra opened his book to where he’d marked his place and settled down to read.

Tomorrow was another day, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind words. It's been wonderful dabbling in this fandom, honestly. It's so nice to be able to just...have a bunch of people who enjoy the same thing I do. This is ultimately a happy story, or at least I will endeavor to make it so. Please be patient with me.


	3. Falling Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
>     
>     
>     You took me to your favorite place on Earth
>     To see the tree they cut down ten years from your birth.
>     Our fingers traced in circles round its history,
>     We brushed our hands right back in time through centuries.
>     
>     As you held me down, you said:
>     "I'll see you in the future when we're older
>     And we are full of stories to be told.
>     Cross my heart and hope to die,
>     I'll see you with your laughter lines."
> 
> __

**[74 B.C. – The Pontus Empire]**

"Oh, you really must be joking," Crowley said, attempting to keep his horse under control. Crowley hated horses, nasty kicky buggers that they were, and this one was no exception. A great black beast with eyes of flame and hooves that struck sparks, it obeyed no one but Crowley—and even then it was a toss-up on whether the horse would do as it was told or attempt to bite him.

"No, it's part of the plan," Mithradates replied, his helm off and his eyes fixed on the horizon. "This is my destiny."

"You're fighting over a bruised ego, Mithradates," he said. "Do you really think the Romans give a plate of figs about your need for independence? They've been absorbing everyone around them for years, and you're letting your pride get in the way of everything else."

It would lead him to hell, but Crowley was more concerned about the plethora of women and children that trailed along behind the army, considering this something that was great fun, like a festival. The Romans weren't known to be kind to rebellious territories, though they favored a brutal form of fairness that Crowley had to admit was interesting in this modern day and age. Real movers and shakers, the Romans.

Pity about the pantheon.

"You speak out of turn, old friend," the king beside him said. "While your tactics have been sound, I am still the ruler of these lands."

"Until the Romans cut your fool head off," Crowley muttered under his breath. Mithradates didn't appear to have heard him, but that was all right. He continued, louder. "They're sending their representative to negotiate the terms of your surrender."

"How do you know this?" Mithradates asked.

"Because I've got eyes," Crowley said, flicking his fingers at an approaching figure.

Also astride a horse, the rider favored the Macedonian style, a black sheep's skin thrown over the back of the animal to provide comfort to the rider. The rider used no stirrups, instead using his knees to control the animal, a large white mare with a pink nose, the long white tail fluttering behind her like a flag.

Dressed like a rider of Macedon, as well, with a short white tunic that sat midthigh, a shined bronze breastplate, and sandals, the most striking thing about the rider aside from his purple cape was the soft curls of white-blond hair that framed his face.

Crowley caught his breath. It couldn't be.

It was.

Aziraphale rode forward, the mare's hooves churning up dirt and clumps of mud behind her, dancing to the side as the angel approached. Oh, that was a good look for him, soft pale thighs exposed as he rode, the leather of his sandals a dark contrast to the delicate curve of his toes. Crowley tore his gaze away, up to the angel’s face, thankful for the dark glasses he’d begun affecting with the rise of the empire. Aziraphale gave a bow to the king before him before he seemed to notice Crowley.

Hazel eyes widened.

He'd been thrown off, Crowley knew then. The thought made him smile, which only seemed to irritate the angel. He offered Aziraphale a bow of his own, though the angel ignored him.

"King Mithradates," he said, his voice using his quietly officious tones that he'd no doubt cultivated in Rome. "General Lucullus sends his regards."

"I doubt that," Mithradates said. "But you are here, and a good king weighs his options. What news do you bring?"

"Lucullus offers you stateship with Roma," Aziraphale said. "An end to this conflict and peace for your peoples."

"And you tell me this, as a boot-licking Macedonian," Mithradates said, not quite a sneer but all the same, it almost made Crowley bristle. Almost. They didn't know each other. Not at all. At least, not that Mithradates knew.

"I tell you this as a representative, nothing more. I am a neutral third party, only interested in ending the conflict," Aziraphale said. His voice was smooth and chilly, perhaps the angel taking offense to the idea that he was anyone's lapdog. His eyes slid to Crowley. "Though your companion seems hell-bent on seeing it continue."

Crowley showed his teeth in a grin. A private joke, as it were.

"He is an advisor, nothing more," said Mithradates. "What does Rome offer in return?"

"Protection, infrastructure," Aziraphale replied. He rolled his shoulders, sitting straighter on his horse. "Rome has become a bastion of learning and discovery."

"Bah," Mithradates said. "I'd rather be a free man than live under the legion's boot. Tell Lucullus to shove his offer."

Aziraphale sighed. "As you wish, lord. But it was not his wish to conquer by force."

"That's what they always say before their legions descend like vultures. No more." Mithratades said. "Begone, Macedonian. I will see their warriors myself."

“I will return with your answer to the general,” Aziraphale said. He offered a curt bow of his head, his shoulders tense. “I have your permission for safe return?”

“You do,” Mithradates said, waving his hand. “I do not kill messengers, but if I see you on the field of battle, I make no promises.”

Crowley stiffened. Suddenly, this was no longer fun. He wheeled his horse around, preparing to ride off.

“Where are you going?” Mithradates asked.

“You no longer need my advice,” Crowley said, the last words coming out in a hiss before he could stop himself. “My tactics would avoid unnecessary bloodshed, but instead of listening, you’re throwing men to their deaths. I’m going home.”

“You can’t leave!” The king beside him drew his sword. “I have not dismissed you.”

How tiresome.

Crowley snapped his fingers, and Mithradates froze mid-movement, his stare blank. He shifted his horse closer, leaning over.

“When I snap my fingers next, you’ll have forgotten about me and the Macedonian. You’ll ride to your side and do what you want, but you’ll no longer have help. Understand?”

There was a jerky nod, like a puppet with most of its strings cut. Crowley snapped his fingers again, and the king sheathed his sword and rode back to his commanders. He didn’t look back.

“What a mess,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley turned his head. “You’re still here?”

“Well, I can’t bally well go back, can I?” The angel gestured at the armies, moving slowly towards each other like great beasts of old. “I was supposed to stop the fight.”

“Really?” Crowley frowned at him. “Not a…fantastic job, angel.”

“Your influence, no doubt,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Hardly, I’ve been maneuvering him for months to get him to surrender. He’s a bit paranoid. Keeps taking poison to avoid assassination.” Crowley shrugged.

“Well, the head office isn’t going to like this at all.”

“Well, maybe you should go…old school.” Crowley nodded at the battlefield. “Really bring the righteous wrath.”

“Ohhh, no, no. I don’t think my side would like that very much.” Aziraphale’s hands tightened on the reins. “I’ll just have to report what happened.”

Crowley shook his head with a sigh. He concentrated, fixing his reptilian gaze on the middle of the battlefield, reaching up and out with his mind, his hand outstretched.

A whistling noise erupted over the battlefield, followed by an explosion. The earth shook, rattling as a meteorite slammed into the ground in the center of the battlefield. Horses screamed, kicking their riders from their backs, the armies falling backwards away from each other.

Crowley’s own horse reared, bucking him from its back. He landed on his spine, wind driven from his lungs as he lay on the ground, wheezing.

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale slid from his horse’s back. “Are you quite all right?”

Crowley huffed a noise. Assent, dissent. He couldn’t tell. He just hurt.

They were just lucky he hadn’t been like he was Before. There’d have been far more meteorites. He’d have lit up the day with stars.

 

* * *

 

You cannot become what you’re meant to be by remaining the same as you are.

 

* * *

 

Tony’s phone jangled while he was deep in the guts of a beautiful 1971 Sprite. He was covered in oil, but he knew that a missed call might be a missed paycheck.

“Hang on, hang on. Just wait a minute.” He set his tools to the side and slid out from under the vehicle, his face smudged with grease. Hands washed as best as he was able, he pawed at the phone and got it on speaker. “Tony’s Restorations.”

“Ah, yes. Sorry to bother,” the voice on the other line said. “I’m calling for Mister Crowley. Is he available?”

“Speaking.”

“R-right. This is D’Angelo’s Books ringing. We’ve just received your order, if you’d like to come by and pick it up at your convenience.”

“Of course,” he said. “Thanks. You can text next time, if you want.”

“O-oh. Well, I’m terribly sorry, sir—”

“You’re fine,” Tony said. “I’ll be ‘round in a couple hours.”

The line disconnected, and he felt a curious buzz beneath his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the familiar pressure of a migraine building behind his eyes. After a moment, it faded. He pulled a bottle of water from the package beneath his tool bench and drained it lukewarm.

He’d told them to text next time. Why had he done that?

He didn’t read much.

* * *

Ezra had been working by himself for the last couple of hours. Strangely, after supper, the shop had slowed down. It was a strange island of quiet in the middle of his week; usually the browsers from the restaurants would come by after their meals to see what was on offer. Now, however, he was manning a quiet shop, dusting the shelves.

All the orders had been picked up, save for two. Mister Crowley still hadn’t been ‘round and Mrs. Dalrymple would be around as soon as the shop opened in the morning, as was her preference. He was curious about Mister Crowley. He’d seemed almost gruff over the phone, and the classic car book made him think of a leather clad biker sort of person, all broad chest and forearms.

Still, wouldn’t do to spend his down time daydreaming. Instead, he’d taken to cleaning once Rafael had left, hoping to keep ahead of the dust. In a shop like this, it would be a miracle to get everything clean and keep it that way, so one must always be on guard for things like that.

He liked the quiet, where he could just roam amongst the bookshelves unimpeded. Almost like a threshold between what was and what will be, the books breathed on their own, exuding a kind of quiet threshold where he could just stand and be himself for a moment.

A liminal space in and of itself, he’d often stood in the bookshop as the hour neared midnight, holding his breath as one day became the next. The feeling would lessen, like the sun sliding away from a window as it set, leaving shadows stretching in its wake, growing longer and longer as the day faded into night.

Now, however, it was like something was holding its breath _for_ him, waiting.

The bell over the door jangled, startling him. He dropped his duster, and he hoped the squeak he’d given hadn’t been audible.

“Hello?” came a voice.

Ezra scooped up his duster, bustling toward the front. He caught sight of a long, lean back and a shock of startling red hair.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment!” he called.

He was covered in dust, and that was hardly presentable. He disappeared behind the stacks before the other could turn, moving into the meeting room to shake himself free as best he could. Coughing, he hurried back up the stairs.

“Sorry, sorry,” he called, rounding the corner. “How may I—"

Oh.

_Oh._

**_Oh._ **

He slowed to a stop as they stared at each other. It was a man, though it was rare that physical appearance made this sort of fist in his chest, squeezing. He’d been leaning against the display of astronomy books, big thick volumes arranged in a pyramid for perusal. Hawking and Kaku and Greene, deGrasse Tyson and Sagan, they’d been arranged in a pleasing spiral by Rafael when they’d come in last month.

The man was handsome, in a long and lanky sort of way, as though he’d stopped growing six inches after he’d meant to have done. An unruly shock of hair in that startling red made Ezra think someone had been running their hands through it. Dressed in jeans and leather boots, a dark t-shirt and a denim over jacket, he was fashionable in the way you saw in Soho these days, as though he wasn’t really trying. The man reached up, pulling off his mirrored sunglasses, and the room seemed to hold its breath again.

His eyes were lovely, a golden brown that leveraged far more gold than was fair, as though he’d stolen the color from honey itself, deep and rich and sweet.

“I—” The man started, but the books had other ideas. The movement sent the pyramid tumbling to the floor and the man with it, apparently having leaned his weight too much on an unstable platform without realizing.

“Oh, dear,” Ezra said, bustling forward to help him up. “Are you quite all right?”

He took the other’s hand without thinking, to help him stand. The feeling was electric, humming beneath his skin as he got the other standing. He let go as soon as the other was upright, moving to the books to get them back in some semblance of order.

“Sorry,” the man said, kneeling to help him. They got the books back to an approximation of where they should have been, and Ezra felt a little better about turning to face him.

That feeling quickly dissipated when he realized those eyes were fixed on his face, studying him. Flustered, he smoothed his sweater with his hands.

“A-are you quite all right?” he asked, letting his gaze skip across the other’s face, as though afraid to stare too long. He could get lost, feeling like there was subtlety he was missing at each new glance.

“I’m fine,” the man said. “Sorry for the mess.”

Ezra shook his head. “Not at all, I’m just glad you aren’t hurt.”

He pressed his hands together in front of him, clasping them as though to gather himself between them, force the scattered parts of him back to some semblance of a working human being. Taking a deep breath, he smiled at the man.

“Now, how may I help you, sir?” He met the other’s eyes, the pupils gone wide and drawing him forward.

“I was, uh, here to pick up a book,” he said. He rubbed at the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I got a call.”

“Oh! _You’re_ Mister Crowley?” Ezra asked.

He nodded. Ezra blinked, the old adage about not judging books and covers coming back to poke him in the side of the head again. He smiled, which made the other’s intense gaze slide off his face, and bustled back behind the counter. He felt like he couldn’t stop smiling around this man.

How odd. It wasn’t as though he didn’t smile, it was just…easier?

“I have it just here,” Ezra said. “Was there anything else that you needed today?”

“The other guy, uh. He mentioned you had a gardening section?” Mister Crowley said.

“Oh! We do!” Ezra set the waiting book down on the counter. “Come with me.”

He waved the other man to follow, and he felt rather than saw Mister Crowley start to move, ambling along behind him. Ezra led him to the back corner, where there was a small but varied section on plants and their care.

“Were you looking for something in particular?” he asked.

“No,” he said. “Just looking.”

“All right. I’ll leave you to it, then,” Ezra said. “I’ll be at the front counter if you have questions or when you’re ready for me to ring you up.”

He turned to go, but the man held up a hand.

“Wait,” came the husky, soft voice again. So gentle for a man who seemed so indifferent at first glance. As though it were a conversation, one they’d had a million times before about anything and everything. “What do you recommend?”

“Oh!” Ezra turned back around, scanning the shelves. “Well, how much of an expert do you consider yourself? Skill level is important to consider.”

“I keep a greenhouse,” he said.

“Lovely,” Ezra breathed, imagining a verdant place, full of blooms. “Well, what do you grow?”

“Orchids. Fussy things,” Mister Crowley said. “Rubber figs, spider palms. Little bit of everything.”

“I see.” Hm. This would be hard.

“I grow roses and herbs, too. And I keep some succulents. Recommendation from a friend. Fussy as well, just not like the orchids.” There was a curious fondness in his voice.

Ezra found himself drawn to it. He reached up, tugging down a copy of The Cattleyas and Their Relatives, holding it out to the other man.

“This one is a good fit, I think,” he said. “But do let me know if it’s not to your taste. I can see about finding something more appropriate.”

“All right,” Mister Crowley said. Their fingers brushed as he took it, sending that electric thrill through Ezra again.

“Would you like a few moments to browse?” Ezra asked, tilting his head with a smile at Mister Crowley.

“No,” he said. “I…think I found what I was looking for.”

“Excellent,” Ezra said, delighted. “Shall I ring you up?”

“Please.”

He led the man toward the counter, highlighting their ordering system, just as good as online, you know, he could find Mister Crowley anything he pleased. It was a chattery sort of conversation, punctuated by ‘I’m listening’ noises from Mister Crowley, and Ezra got the feeling he was filling the air with his own opinions rather than letting the poor man get a word in edgewise.

Funny enough, it didn’t seem to bother him, and the one-sided conversation continued as he rang the orders through.

“Here’s your receipt and your change, sir,” Ezra said. “Please do come back again.”

“Thanks,” Mister Crowley said.

Ezra watched him go, feeling that tiny hope in his chest where he really did hope Mister Crowley would become a regular. He was a nice man.

* * *

Tony left the book shop in a bit of a daze. Apparently, he was a reader, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, things have a way of working themselves out at D'Angelo's. :)
> 
> Of note, I should make mention about the Third Mithridatic War. A Roman campaign, one of the first battles was indeed interrupted by a meteorite strike, mentioned often in older texts. It didn't stop the war from continuing, but it was seemingly considered a poor omen. They interrupted and took the field at a later date.
> 
> Also of note is the general that Aziraphale is representing. Lucius Licinius Lucullus was politician of the Roman Republic, later turned general. Lucullus returned to Rome from the east with so much captured booty that the whole could not be fully accounted, and poured enormous sums into private building, husbandry and even aquaculture projects which shocked and amazed his contemporaries by their magnitude. He also patronized the arts and sciences lavishly, transforming his hereditary estate in the highlands of Tusculum into a hotel-and-library complex for scholars and philosophers. He built the horti Lucullani, the famous Gardens of Lucullus, on the Pincian Hill in Rome, and in general became a cultural innovator in the deployment of imperial wealth.
> 
> He is best remembered for the splendor of his opulent retirement. Lucullus established a reputation for magnificent banquets, at which he wined and dined the leading poets, artists, and philosophers of his time. His feasts were sufficiently extravagant to establish a lasting place for his name as a synonym of "lavish" in the English lexicon. The word 'lucullan' implies something lavish or extravagant.
> 
> ...rather perfect for Aziraphale, don't you think?
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for dealing with my aberrant update schedule. I appreciate your patience with me.


	4. Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       _You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve
>     And I have always buried them deep beneath the ground
>     Dig them up
>     Let's finish what we've started
>     Dig them up
>     So nothing's left unturned_
>     
> 
> Angels aren't supposed to have crises of faith. It just isn't done.

**[May 30, 1431 – Place du Vieux-Marché, Rouen, France]**

It seemed appropriate that Aziraphale bear witness, at the end.

The maid had done wonderfully, according to Heaven; she would be venerated for her piety and her grace, bearing the slings and arrows of her people and of the English. Aziraphale stood on the parapet of the church, looking down into the square.

She had come so far since Orleans. He was inordinately proud of her, her conviction, her faith. Heaven would be lucky to have her.

His stomach twisted as he watched them stake the pyre into the ground.

“Seems a bit of a shame, really,” said a voice next to his ear.

Aziraphale absolutely didn’t startle, he didn’t. He turned, beholding Crowley.

Dressed in the fashion of the time, seen on the streets of Luxemburg, perhaps. It had been so long since Aziraphale had turned his attention to matters that weren’t the war between the French and the English.

That wasn’t the pressing question, now. The fact was, they were standing in a church.

But…how?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, gaping at him.

“Same as you,” Crowley said, flicking his fingers at the pyre down below. “Observing. Bearing witness. As we do, have done.”

“No, I mean, what are you doing here, in this place?” Aziraphale hissed. Crowley didn’t exactly blink, but he did glance down at the stones beneath his feet. “This is a _church_!”

“Oh,” Crowley said. He shrugged. “Something seems to happen to hallowed ground when one burns an innocent at the stake in the courtyard. Seems to weaken that whole hallowed argument, don’t you think?”

“But they haven’t burned her,” he said, his voice soft, regretful. “Not yet.”

“Well, you have to admit the intent leaves a little bit of wiggle room, yeah?” he asked. He didn’t elaborate, or even seem to expect Aziraphale to answer.

Aziraphale simply looked down at the good leather boots Crowley wore, firmly planted on the stones of the church’s wall.

“Celebrating a job _well done_ , are we?” His gaze snapped up to find Crowley watching him. The sarcasm in his voice was almost a palpable thing.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “But someone should be here.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “Are you here to grant her mercy, angel?”

“What?” Aziraphale blinked at Crowley, feeling like there was an intensity in the yellow gaze, pupils drawn to almost nothing. It hadn’t been there before, not really. There had always been a wariness around Crowley, as though he were waiting on something else to happen, to justify the animosity between them, an animosity that had faded into familiarity.

Now, the gaze burrowed into him, seeking all the doubts, the cracks in his righteousness. It was unsettling. An insight into what Crowley really was. He was looking for weakness. Aziraphale drew himself up further, his leather harness creaking, the sword belted to his hip jangling.

“Mercy,” Crowley said. “I thought angels were far more up on the vernacular, but then…I never really got more than a passing glance since I came down.”

“She’s doing as instructed,” Aziraphale said. “As she should. As we all do.”

“And look where that got her,” Crowley said. “You know, I’ve spoken with her at length.”

“You—” Aziraphale opened his mouth, ready to blister the demon’s ears, but Crowley merely held up his hand.

“She once told me that she’d rather be at home, living quietly with her mother. Spinning. Can you believe that? The Maid of Orleans, spinning clothing the rest of her days?”

Aziraphale’s mouth closed, slowly.

“I was a part of the interrogation,” he said, his voice soft. “Not to influence, but to _see_. She’s a girl. She’s barely nineteen, frightened out of her wits, and they’re tying her to the stake to kill her, and all you can do is watch.”

“It’s all I was instructed to do,” Aziraphale said. “Heaven’s orders were explicit—”

“As they always are, but they lack compassion!” Crowley’s voice went guttural, a hiss on his tongue as he threw a hand toward the figures in the square. They’d been stacking wood since dawn. Someone kind had rigged a cross that would be eye level with Jeanne.

Aziraphale riveted his eyes on the stake in the middle. It was almost time.

“I don’t like it,” he admitted, almost to himself.

“Then you can stop it.”

“No, I can’t,” Aziraphale said. “This has to happen. Upstairs said it’s been ordained. If the Almighty wills it, so it must be.”

“How can you be so clever, and yet so stupid?” Crowley said. “Cruelty is never for the greater good! How does that bring her closer to God? If she had faith, all that would happen is that it was shaken.”

“ _Should not your piety be your confidence and your blameless ways your hope?_ ” Aziraphale asked, his eyes locked on the tiny figure in the homespun dress being led to the stake. Jeanne looked so small from here. So very human. He remembered when her eyes blazed with faith at Agincourt, when she had routed the English to the surprise and joy of the French forces. His chest ached with a sadness that was familiar; he’d been down this road before.

Many, many times.

“Don’t quote Job at _me_ ,” Crowley hissed, sneering the words. “I’m not looking for Heaven’s answer, I’m asking for _yours_.”

“It’s done, Crowley. There’s nothing for it.”

He swallowed as he watched the flames leap up, the dry kindling licking at the hems of Jeanne’s skirts. She kept her eyes fixed on the cross, tears streaming down her face as she felt the fire catch.

“If you won’t do something, I will,” Crowley said, his voice a warning.

“I can’t do anything,” Aziraphale said, his voice heavy with despair. “I’m not _supposed_ to. Her suffering brings her grace, and her grace brings her to the Almighty. That’s how it works.”

“Where was that spark of kindness that gave a pair of humans a flaming sword, angel?” Crowley said. His sibilant voice was laced with disappointment. The smell of wood smoke filled the air, heavy with incense laid among the logs and kindling. It was near choking to Aziraphale. He’d thought himself far removed from it, but it found him regardless.

“Who are you that gets to judge, demon?” Aziraphale snapped, finally. The words exited in a rush, as though someone had pulled back one of those brilliant English longbows and let an arrow go, aiming straight for its mark with a hiss of feathers. “Who are you to tell me how to do my job? So what, I help her, miracle her from the fire, and then what? I Fall? I defy Heaven openly, rocket downward like the lot of you, have Her grace ripped from me because you can’t stand the idea that this may be a part of the Plan? All we’d have is two demons instead of one!”

“Would you listen to yourself?” Crowley snapped. “You holier-than-thou—”

“That’s the point!” Aziraphale roared. “I’m much holier than thou! You faithless—"

Crowley leaned forward on the parapet, snapping his fingers.

Aziraphale thought he felt the rush of a true miracle, whispering fast against his skin like a great inhale, sucking the cold from the stones around them and leaving them hot to the touch in the sun. Crowley breathed out, exhaling toward the burning pyre.

Nothing changed.

Aziraphale peered through the smoke. “What did you do?”

“I gave her _comfort_ ,” Crowley said. “No temptation. No strings. She’ll die with visions of God and the saints on her eyelids, and she won’t feel the flames. Not much, anyway. Some things are beyond even me. But _mercy_? Mercy I can do.”

He sounded…tired. Exhausted, really, as though the whole world’s weight had settled between his ebony wings. His eyelids drooped, hooded behind his glasses, his shoulders rounded as he withdrew into himself.

Aziraphale reached out, as though to lay a hand on his forearm. Crowley swatted it away.

“Good bye, angel.”

With a whisper, Aziraphale stood alone on the desecrated parapet. More questions than answers swirled around him in the smoke, but as he looked down, he saw Jeanne’s smile. Fixed on him, as though he’d been the one to grant her succor. He licked chapped lips, bowing his head as her eyes slid closed.

Falling, condemned to damnation, it was the worst thing that could happen to an angel.

At least, that was what he’d thought before.

 

* * *

 

Have faith.

 

* * *

 

**[July 7, 1456 – Reims, France]**

"In consideration of the request of the d'Arc family against the Bishop of Beauvais, the promoter of criminal proceedings, and the inquisitor of Rouen, and in consideration of the facts," said the archbishop, standing before the officials gathered together.

Jeanne's elderly mother sat close to the floor, her back straight, her bearing proud. Iron colored her hair, but her gaze did not waver from the archbishop.

Aziraphale, as he was wont to do, watched from the gallery, a quiet spot that had been overlooked by his own design. He was alone and it was preferable. He'd stopped mixing with humans after 1431, only coming forward to partake in food when he couldn’t bear to pass it up or collect a new tome. Rarely did he stop, rarely did he return to the same place anymore.

But this...he wanted to be here for this.

"We, in session of our court and having God only before our eyes, say, pronounce, decree and declare that the said trial and sentence of condemnation being tainted with fraud, calumny, iniquity and contradiction, and manifest errors of fact and of law. Furthermore, we find it to have been and to be null, invalid, worthless, without effect and annihilated. We proclaim that Jeanne did not contract any taint of infamy and that she shall be and is washed clean of such."

There was an exhaled murmur of voices from the gallery, but all Aziraphale felt was...empty. He was glad they'd gotten closure for Jeanne’s mother, but the settled heart of Isabelle Romée did not settle his own.

She’d sought justice, and rightly so, but she would not be granted punishment for those that put her daughter to death—she would have to be satisfied with the clarity of Jeanne’s honor.

He turned, leaving the church and the murmuring crowds behind. As he slipped from a side door, he thought he caught sight of a lanky, familiar figure, but as he turned, there was nothing. Shrugging, he continued on his way.

He got nearly out of the city before the demon fell into step with him.

“Clear your conscience, did you?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Aziraphale said. “No. But Isabelle saw some measure of justice done. There’s talk of canonizing her.”

“Of course there is,” Crowley sneered. “They murdered her for a good cause, let’s continue to take her name as a holy symbol.”

“Don’t be crass,” Aziraphale snapped. “Why are you here?”

“Came to see for myself. To bear witness, as we should.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Now I’m off to get absolutely fucking soaked in the nearest wine barrel and I might not come out until the turn of the century.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale said. It wasn’t a half-bad plan, but he hadn’t been invited. Shouldn’t hope to be invited, either. He frowned and shook the thought from his mind. Opposite sides. Boundaries needed to be redrawn. He’d become…attached to the demon, but there were so many questions. So many. He was tired of them bouncing about in his brain and having his heart answer—because the right thing and the Done Thing were clashing, and it was time to reinforce his faith.

He was an angel. Crowley was a demon.

Ne’er the twain shall meet.

“Join me?” Crowley asked, brows lifting behind his darkened spectacles.

“No,” Aziraphale said. “No, I shan’t. Be well, Crowley.”

Crowley nodded, almost as if to himself. “Suit yourself.”

It was like Aziraphale had answered a question, one that wasn’t the one that had been asked. As though Crowley had put him on trial and found his answer wanting. It left Aziraphale feeling very alone as there was another audible pop as air rushed to fill the space that Crowley left behind.

 

* * *

 

Have _faith_.

 

* * *

 

The clouds opened up four blocks from the shop, and Ezra lamented that he’d forgotten his umbrella when he’d left on his break to get their lunch. The paper bag in his hands was protected, but he wasn’t, and he ducked under a covered bus stop until the worst of it passed. Cars zipped past, sending up little ruffling waves of water from puddles.

He shivered. He’d forgotten his coat, too. What a mess.

“Thought that was you,” said a voice. He looked up. Mister Crowley stood beneath an umbrella, just outside the bus stop. “You all right?”

He hadn’t even noticed him approach. He’d been too wrapped up in his ‘poor me’ diatribe. Those amazing golden eyes peered at him over the rims of his sunglasses, and Ezra got the feeling he’d been looked at like this before—not just once, but many, many times. It was hard to think through the static of his own thoughts, the roil of emotion behind the rush of blood in his ears.

“I just forgot my umbrella,” he said, a tad sheepishly. “I’ll make it back to the shop all right, just have to wait for a break in the storm.”

Yet another excuse. He always seemed to be getting himself into trouble, tripping himself up, falling behind. It had been that way since he was a child, he remembered. He probably appeared hopeless to the other man.

“Ugh,” the other said. At first, Ezra had thought that it was a groan of annoyance—fearing he was right, but then Mister Crowley grinned. “Fuck that. Come on, I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Ezra said.

“I know I don’t,” he said. “But I want to. Come on.”

He shuffled a little closer so Ezra could get under his umbrella without getting soaked any further.

“Thank you,” Ezra said, getting them situated so they both had adequate umbrella. “That’s very kind of you.”

Mister Crowley snorted. “It’s not. You just needed a hand, right?”

He glanced over, catching the hint of a smile that curved the other man’s lips.

“Yes,” Ezra said, adjusting the food bag in his hands. “I suppose you’re right.”

 

* * *

 

Tony got them to the door in one piece, which was the easy part, all things considered.

Ever since he’d been rung out a week ago, he hadn’t stopped thinking about him. He was handsome, in a way that men hadn’t been in a long, long time. There was softness there, a gentleness, and it appealed to him. Large hazel eyes, curly white-blond hair, it was hard to even look at him.

He never wanted to stop.

The walk to the bookshop was a lot shorter than he’d anticipated, and now he was cursing not thinking of anything to say. Instead, he let the shopkeep lead them up the stairs, where he shook out the umbrella beneath the shop’s awning.

“Thank you,” the man said. Ezra, he remembered, belatedly, printed cheerily on his receipt and signed by the man in question, to show he’d picked up his book. “I should be getting on. Were you coming in to browse?”

“I’m not much of a reader,” Tony said, and immediately could have kicked himself.

“Oh,” Ezra said softly. His face fell. “Then I really must have taken you out of your way. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tony said. “I was happy to do it.”

“Were you?” he asked, his face lighting up. Delight seemed to be the natural state of Ezra’s face, making the hazel of his eyes look far more blue than brown. Tony felt color crawl up his neck and ears. “Well, I’m glad. Thank you, Mister Crowley.”

“Tony,” he managed. His mouth had gone dry. Ezra turned to go inside, and he kicked himself into action before he ruined it. “Listen, did you want to go get a drink some time?”

“A drink?” he asked. “As friends?”

“Oh, well, yeah,” Tony said. Maybe he wasn’t interested, but he could at least make a friend, perhaps. He didn’t date, regardless. It would be a waste of both their time. But drinks? Drinks he could do. “No pressure.”

Not too fast, no pressure. Never.

Ezra beamed at him. “You know, I think I’d like that.”

“Can I text you?” Tony asked.

“Certainly.” Ezra tore off the top part of his paper bag, getting himself a scrap before he set the bag on the table just inside. “Have you got a pen?”

Tony patted his pockets and finally found one of his battered shop pens, a cheap rollerball that was used for making measurement notes while he worked. Thankfully free of grease, he handed it to Ezra. The other man scrawled a number on the scrap of paper and handed both to Tony.

Their hands brushed, and the feeling was electric, making the hair on his forearms stand straight up as the sensation traveled all the way to the nape of his neck.

“I’ll find out when you’re free next,” Tony said, tucking the pen and the paper away.

Ezra nodded, his nose scrunching a little as he smiled. “I’d better get back to work. Have a pleasant rest of your day, Mist—I mean, Tony.”

“Yeah,” Tony said faintly. “You, too.”

He waved Ezra back inside and waited until the door swung shut before he descended the steps. As he rounded the corner from the shop, the rain began to ease. As he got to the opposite corner, the sky began to clear. Tony laughed softly, an amused chuckle as he shook his umbrella free of the excess water and closed it.

The paper in his pocket was like a warm coal, but the thought was pleasant, like the thought of Ezra somewhere dark and cool, low lights sheening off that impossibly white-blond hair. Long lashes lowered, Tony getting a chance to get a little closer. Flirt a little, see where the night took them.

He’d work it out of his system. He always did, this singing in his bloodstream. Nothing was permanent, and that was okay. Fun wasn’t meant to last, and relationships never really worked for him. It had been that way regardless of their nature.

His mother had abandoned him, he’d aged out of the system, and he’d worked hard making his own niche in life. There was nothing significant about the others in Tony’s life. One-night stands were common. He’d learned to avoid relationships—they were messy. If it was a lonely existence, he never really thought about it, not craving that connection like other people seemed to do, clinging to the first good thing to happen to them and wringing all the happiness free like a sponge.

He'd learned to go with the flow.

So. Drinks.

“A good start,” he hummed to himself. He cut through St. James park on his way home.

He liked to listen to the birdsong.

 

* * *

 

_Have faith._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I haven't been responding to comments like I should; I'll endeavor to answer questions and thank you personally - you're all lovely people and I'm overwhelmed by how much attention this is getting. I'll hopefully have more soon.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Concessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       _'Cause you're a sky, 'cause you're a sky full of stars
>     I wanna die in your arms
>     'Cause you get lighter the more it gets dark
>     I'm gonna give you my heart_
>     

**[The Globe Theater, London, 1601]**

Aziraphale produced a coin for some grapes, still cool from the cellars. They were quite ripe, good to eat and he appreciated how they burst on his tongue. As good as Juliet’s usual fare. He chewed, his eyes tracing ‘Hamlet’ as Burbage chewed his way across the stage.

The shadow at his shoulder made him pause.

“I thought you said we’d blend in here,” Crowley said. “Fade into the crowds.”

“Yes, well, I thought that—”

“Oh, this isn’t one of his gloomy ones, is it?” Crowley’s eyes were fixed on the stage, rather than Aziraphale himself; the thought sort of pricked at his pride a bit. He remembered when those yellow eyes were on him constantly, watching. “Augh, no wonder there’s no one here. He should stick to comedy.”

He inhaled, still chewing. There was no sense in getting bent in knots about it. Crowley and he had barely spoken since 1456, and that meant a sort of…fragile peace. To extend the olive branch, Aziraphale had suggested that they put the Arrangement into effect; at first, he thought that his note had gone unread, left with Crowley’s contact in Castile, but the demon had seemed almost eager to get away from Spain.

Aziraphale didn’t blame him; from what he’d seen, the Spanish Inquisition had been just awful. No work of demons there, from what his agents told him—Crowley had been nowhere to be found. The whole thing had been orchestrated by human minds, as a show of their great faith.

Lord, but they were misguided sometimes. Complex, almost unknowable motives at times, but in general they were good. It was when you got to the extremes that it became a real issue.

Aziraphale didn’t blame Crowley for wanting an escape. From their conversation in Rouen, he had no doubt that Crowley had been working against the whole thing, which only made it worse.

There was no point in asking the demon, however. There would be lies at best, censure at worst.

The point was, with careful planning, the Arrangement had been working rather well. They’d been cancelling each other out for millennia, and it did seem as though their respective head offices only cared that the deed was done. Whomever did their tasks didn’t seem to matter.

Still, it had been almost a century and a half since they’d last spoken face to face. Their interactions had been written notes, secretive drop locations and not being seen together. It had been a wonder that the demon had agreed to meet, considering the terms of their last parting.

He was…glad for that, at least. He stuffed another grape in his mouth, to avoid blurting the thought out.

Shakespeare was a decent enough chap, Aziraphale considered as he made his suggestions to the playwright. Hamlet was indeed, very good. It would be a popular one, if only it could gain the traction it needed. It was harder than his comedies.

And really, who could top the sheer comedy of _Much Ado About Nothing_?

“And what does your friend think?” Burbage spat, clearly tired of Aziraphale’s nervous rambling.

“Oh-oh he’s not my friend, we’ve never met before—” Aziraphale hated the words coming from his mouth. His gaze went to Crowley, who had the slowly spreading grin of a cat that got the cream. His teeth were white, whiter than anything completely natural, and Aziraphale had the sudden, unbidden image of a beast at rest, fangs displayed not as a threat but a promise.

It was beautiful, yet terrible. Much like Crowley himself.

Somewhere, deep inside him, the knowing smirk twisted something in his chest, bringing pleasure at Crowley’s amusement. He smiled so little since the beginning of the Dark Ages, it was a wonder to see. Aziraphale was quite distracted by the thought.

When had that become important?

“I think you should get on with the play,” Crowley rasped, his voice tinged with just a modicum of power. A minor miracle, meant to shift the focus from them and back to the production at hand. Aziraphale let out a grateful, relieved breath.

Crowley always seemed to know what to do when these sorts of things happened.

He shouted encouragement at Burbage, mostly to get his own thoughts together.

“What do you want?” he asked, after another smaller miracle, that of pretty words, made Shakespeare slide off, scribbling on a piece of parchment. Crowley had always been gifted with a silver tongue, forked though it might be, and Aziraphale had no doubt he would be seeing that repeated through the ages as an iconic line.

“Now, why ever would you insinuate that I might possibly want something?” He could hear the grin in Crowley’s voice, see the vague crinkle of his eyes behind his darkened spectacles.

It flustered him.

“You are up to no good,” he said, instead, popping another grape in his mouth.

“Obviously,” Crowley purred. “You’re up to good, I take it. Lots of good deeds?”

“No rest for the…” He floundered for a moment, knowing the end of that sentence was not the word he was looking for. “…well, good.”

A lame finish, but it seemed to amuse Crowley nonetheless. He paced around Aziraphale as though studying him; it occurred to the angel that he hadn’t been seen by Crowley in nearly as long.

The question rose, unbidden in the back of his mind. Did Crowley still like what he saw?

Their last parting, it had seemed as though he’d disappointed Crowley. He’d been mourning Jeanne, taking no joy in the clearing of her name after her death, and they’d spoken harshly to each other. Yet, here he was, standing beside him, a sort of dark splendor to his dress that set off the rich auburn of his hair, the locks tumbling carelessly to his shoulders.

It was artful, how Crowley managed to look tempting in whatever fashion happened to be popular at the time; it shouldn’t be surprising, however—he was Original Sin, after all.

Aziraphale pushed the thought away. “I have to go to Edinburgh by the end of the week.”

It was unlike him to volunteer that information, and the rise of Crowley’s brows meant he was intrigued.

…maybe it would be all right to share this. They were on opposite sides, but really, who else did he have to talk to? He hadn’t seen another angel since they’d chosen him to be the one to lead Jeanne.

On that note, maybe it was for the best. The memo he’d gotten after that had been harsh.

“You know, I have to be in Edinburgh next week, too,” Crowley said, almost as an afterthought. “Tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle.”

“Doesn’t sound like hard work,” Aziraphale said. Almost reflexively. Dismissive.

Crowley hardly seemed affronted.

“That’s why I thought we should…” He lifted his brows at Aziraphale suggestively. The angel gave him a blank look. “Well, bit of a waste of effort, really, the both of us going to Scotland, only to cancel one another out.”

“You cannot actually be suggesting…what I _infer_ …you are implying,” Aziraphale said, primly.

“Which is?” Crowley’s voice was soft, the words urging Aziraphale to lean closer, to close the gap between them. If he’d needed to breathe, he’d have stopped then.

“That only one of us goes to Edinburgh. Does both. The blessing and the tempting.” He glanced away from Crowley, gaze sliding off Crowley’s mouth, the grapes in his hands feeling far too little to hold onto right at this moment. Something more solid, not something that would squelch to pulp in his grip.

“We’ve done it before,” Crowley reminded him, his voice a low singsong that rippled over Aziraphale’s skin. “Dozens of times now. The Arrangement—”

“Don’t say it!” Aziraphale whispered, harsh and stern.

“Our respective offices don’t actually care how things get done. They just want to check the boxes, cross it off the list,” Crowley reminded him.

“If Hell finds out, they won’t just be angry,” Aziraphale said. He was almost surprised at his own forthrightness, but it had been weighing on him for nearly a century now. “They’ll destroy you.”

And then he would truly be alone.

There had been a preview of it, since 1456. He hadn’t seen Crowley; they’d kept their distance. It was far lonelier than imagined, Aziraphale setting aside a text to speak to someone, only to find that his human companions had drifted away, found new works. Grown old, died. Started families. Passed, in a blinking.

He loved humanity, but he couldn’t exist within it.

Time was eternal to him, to the nature of himself. He couldn’t form lasting relationships with humanity, any more than they could form friendships with the mayflies that danced on the riverbank in the summers. He’d watched innumerable sunrises and sunsets, rainstorms and droughts. No one else on Earth could say the same—except for the demon at his side.

Falling, at some point, had become secondary to losing the only being that understood his plight as well as Crowley did. They were on opposite sides. They couldn’t be friends. They couldn’t be—

It was enough, he thought, to have this. Even as his own hedonist tendencies cried out for more, to bridge the gap and consume all the demon had to offer, to enjoy the garden of delight—both Earthly and Celestial—that the lift of Crowley’s lips promised him, he held himself back.

They were on opposite sides. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

“Nobody ever has to know,” Crowley said. Aziraphale had the distinct idea that Crowley was no longer speaking of their Arrangement, leaning toward Aziraphale like he knew the breadth and depth of the angel, as though he’d passed his fingers over it, dipped them in and savored the taste as he’d licked them clean. So much unsaid in the span of a heartbeat, it nearly caused Aziraphale to stumble back a step as his knees buckled.

Crowley held up a coin. “Flip you for Edinburgh?”

“Oh…oh, _all right_ ,” Aziraphale snapped, still rather flustered by this moment of stark clarity. “Heads.”

“Tails, I’m afraid.” Crowley gave him a smile. “All yours.”

Aziraphale’s vengeance was swift and sure, pleading with his eyes for Crowley to make this production a success.

It worked.

 

* * *

 

It is painful, my love. I know. Keep going.

 

* * *

 

“Have we found him yet?” Gabriel asked.

“No, there’s been no sign for months,” Beelzebub frowned out at the water. They’d chosen to meet at the outskirts of London, by a natural body of water. The ducks here were strangers to humans, and so avoided the two figures by the banks.

Probably for the best, as Beelzebub flicked their fingers at a goose that had been eyeing them and sent it skipping across the pond like a stone when it sailed closer for an aggressive hissing session.

“Well,” Gabriel said, straightening his cuffs. “Have your people spread a wider net. He hasn’t taken the bait yet.”

“And what are your people doing? Combing the surveillance? It doesn’t _work_ with him.”

“We’re also searching,” Gabriel said, his tone snippy. “Don’t think we’ve left it all to you—we’d never get this ball rolling.”

“Shut up,” Beelzebub said. “Call me when you’ve found something. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

Gabriel was alone on the bank of the pond, watching as Beelzebub sank into the muck and disappeared. He frowned in consternation.

“I thought we’d been making such progress,” he hummed to himself.

The goose had returned; it floated by his foot and hissed at him. He glanced down, scowling. It burst into an explosion of feathers, and Gabriel disappeared with a roil of lightning and a warning growl of thunder.

 

* * *

 

“Mister Crowley is nice,” Ezra commented, in what he hoped was an off-hand manner. By the way Rafael’s hands slowed on the books he was unpacking, he didn’t think he’d succeeded.

“Is he?” came the question. Careful, as though Rafael was searching for Ezra’s thoughts on the matter before giving his own opinion.

“Mm-hm,” Ezra said. “He walked me back when that rainstorm hit last week. He was a gentleman.”

“I see,” Rafael said. “Did he say anything to you?”

“He…asked me out for a drink.” Ezra folded his hands carefully on the counter, avoiding Rafael’s gaze. “As friends. I know—he’s a customer—”

“Do you like the idea of being friends with him?” Rafael asked.

Ezra blinked at him. “Why…yes. Aren’t you concerned he’s a customer?”

“Are you?” Rafael asked. “We have plenty of customers. Friends for you, people you enjoy spending your time with? Those are in short supply.”

“Oh.” Ezra glanced down at his hands, where they were folding in on themselves, holding on to something as tightly as he could. Rafael’s tanned hand laid over his own, smoothing the fidgeting and helping him untangle them. He couldn’t meet his boss’s eyes, afraid of the complications of this.

“ _Fratellino._ I won’t say I’m not worried about you,” he said. “Because I am. You’ve given your whole life to this shop, and I want you to find happiness. Sometimes that’s with books, yes, the written word. But I want you to find someone you can connect with—because what’s the point of all these words if you can’t share how they make you feel?”

“I…” Ezra swallowed. “I have my kids.”

“And you’re happier than I’ve ever seen you on Wednesdays,” Rafael said, giving his hand a squeeze. “But you don’t find lasting pleasure in it. I’m not presuming to tell you how to live your life, but I know you’d bloom beautifully if someone were to help you grow.”

“Rafael,” Ezra said. “I don’t think I can do that anymore. I don’t think I’m…made to love someone like that.”

“Listen to me,” Rafael said, reaching up and cuffing Ezra gently on the jaw, so that he would look at him. “ _Senza peli sulla lingua_. No bullshit. You deserve someone to love like that. Do you think I can’t see the love you pour into this shop, each and every day?”

Ezra blinked away the wetness in his eyes, holding onto Rafael’s kind gaze. “But—”

“No buts. Someone will be lucky to have you, and you know it.” Rafael bumped his forehead with Ezra’s. “You’re my friend. I want the very best for you. So, I’m going to want to meet Mister Crowley eventually.”

“You talk like we’re dating,” Ezra said, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms as he sat back. It was odd, really, how conversations like these could make him feel like he’d just run a mile. “It’s just drinks.”

“Drinks first, see how you feel. See how _he_ feels. I haven’t known anyone who’s gone out with you to not come back loving you, just a little bit.” Rafael grinned at him. “They’d be crazy not to. You’ve just got to put yourself out there, and that’s the hardest part.”

“Rafael—” Ezra inhaled. Sometimes it felt like Rafael was too good to be true. “Why did we never—”

“Because you’re my little brother, and I’ve got someone back in the old country,” Rafael said, shrugging. “ _Mio amato_ , he waits for me to get tired of the English weather and come home. But don’t think I love you any less! You’re a catch. You just have to find the right net, and jump in without hesitation. It’s what I did.”

It was reassuring, he thought. At least, it sealed the cracks in his chest that had been forming since he was a very young man. If only for a little while.

“Come on,” Rafael said. “Let’s break for supper. Roxanne’s is still open.”

“Oh, yes, please.” Ezra was immediately cheered up. Food seemed to help in these sorts of situations.

 

* * *

 

It had been almost a week, and he was driving Tony to distraction. The kind bookseller, with his cherubic face.

He flopped on his back, taking in the ceiling of his dim bedroom. He’d been trying to sleep for an hour or more, he couldn’t tell. It wasn’t as if he had to work in the morning immediately—being his own boss did wonders for his hours of operation—but it was still disconcerting, because Ezra had been occupying his thoughts more than was frankly healthy.

He had his number programmed into his phone, but he’d hesitated to text him. It was…frightening, really. Like he was on the cusp of something huge, and if he leapt, he would fall forever.

Or Ezra would catch him.

He wasn’t sure which scared him more.

Sighing, he rolled to his side, scrabbling for his phone on the bedside table. Best to yank this off like a band-aid. It had been quite a while since he’d felt that pull, that indication he might get too attached for his own good. Not since he’d been a teenager had he hoped for anything more than a passing fancy.

It was all about the now. Not about the future. The future was distant. Here and now were what mattered.

Ezra had already shot down the idea of drinks being anything more than friendly. Still, he thought about where he’d like to take him. Find somewhere dark and quiet, intimate.

He shook his head, powering up his phone and pulling up the number.

**_U awake?_ **

Maybe not, considering it was a quarter to midnight, but it was worth a shot.

_Who is this, please?_

Oh, right. Stupid of him. He’d completely forgotten to give the poor man his own mobile number.

**_Tony_ **

Wait. He sent an additional text.

**_Mister Crowley._ **

_Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t have your number. I’ll save it now._

Tony smiled, the hard edges of his face lit by his phone as they softened. He typed like he spoke, proper English and just a little bit of reserve. It was almost sweet.

_What ever are you doing awake?_

**_Wanted to ask u a ?_ **

_A…question?_

**_U feeling up to those drinks still_ **

_Right now?_

**_Y not_ **

_It’s almost midnight._

**_I know_ **

_Where would we even go?_

**_I know a place_ **

He held his breath. Maybe he’d pushed it too far. Too fast. Waiting a week and then asking to see him immediately. It was like him, flash in the pan and then cutting contact. It was easier, cleaner, that way.

After what felt like an eternity, a new message popped up.

_All right. Can I meet you?_

**_Sure give me half an hour_ **

_All right. Send me the address and I’ll do my best not to yawn in your face._

Tony laughed quietly to himself and rolled out of bed, letting the sheets puddle to the floor around him. He needed to shower and look his best. He had a book seller to impress, after all.

How hard could it be?

 

* * *

 

Ezra looked down at his phone.

“This is crazy,” he said, sitting up from where he was comfortable in bed. He’d been awake and reading, as was his wont late at night, but had been considering calling it a night when the text had startled him. He didn’t often use his phone for that, so it was a shock.

He’d honestly forgotten his little flip phone could do that.

Now, though, adrenaline flooded through his system for a whole different reason.

Mister Crowl—Tony wanted to see him.

_You’ve just got to put yourself out there, and that’s the hardest part._

He moved to his dresser to find something to wear. He hoped Rafael was right; but either way, this was new. The thought of those lovely eyes roving over him made the hair on his nape stand on end. He wanted that, more than he could admit to himself. Maybe it was good for him.

He just had to take the leap. He had to be fearless.

He could do this.

“This is crazy.” He laughed, a little delighted in his daring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't apologize for Tony's texting style, he's obnoxious and he knows it. Keeps clients from having drawn out text conversations when he can just reply 'k' at them.
> 
> I ascribe to the theory that Aziraphale was in love with Crowley for much longer than he might have realized, and only came to the conclusion that Crowley felt the same way in 1947. Because he's a little slower to embrace change than Crowley is - but he's always loved the demon, in some form or fashion.


	6. Firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       _He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
>     But he talks like a gentleman
>     Like you imagined when you were young
>     
>     Can we climb this mountain
>     I don't know
>     Higher now than ever before
>     I know we can make it if we take it slow
>     Let's take it easy
>     Easy now, watch it go_
>     

****

**[Paris, 1788]**

“ _Animals._ ” It was huffed with the same exasperation one might use with a particularly irritating pet. The sound of the jeers of the crowd had been ebbing and swelling like the tides of wrath since noon, the crowds whipped into a frenzy by the bloodshed.

Aziraphale hardly felt fear in moments like these, mostly just exasperation for the inconvenience. In his time on Earth, he’d been discorporated maybe a handful of times in his six-thousand-year tenure, and he loathed the idea of the paperwork. Especially for this one.

_Cause of discorporation: Angel in question is a gluttonous old fool._

He winced internally.

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that.”

The whisper of power as time slowed was enough to make Aziraphale inhale with a shudder. It was a casual display of someone who wore it like a mantle, had done since the Beginning, and it made him tremble, just a bit at the thought of it. There was allure to that power, and a signature flashiness that no one had ever been able to reproduce reliably.

“Crowley,” he said, trying to keep the smile off his face. He failed rather terribly, but that was all right. He was indeed happy to see the demon. He almost always was, if he were honest with himself, but Aziraphale had made an Olympic event out of being in denial, before the Olympics had even been considered by the Greeks.

He was working on it.

They’d never discussed who Crowley had been Before—terribly rude, you know—but Aziraphale could never help but wonder. Especially with displays like this.

The screams and shouts of the crowd died to a trickle, a low, almost sibilant thump of sound, drawn out by mathematics and physics into an almost-silence that he could readily push to the back of his brain, like white noise. He and Crowley existed freely here, unfettered by the miracle like the humans around them. The jailer was caught, in the midst of turning, his eyes fixed on the window. He never saw Crowley.

Aziraphale did, however, turning to find Crowley lounging on a stool across from him, long legs splayed out in fine leather boots, trousers hugging his hips, his waistcoat plain fabric, devoid of ornamentation.

“Oh, good lord,” he said, blurting the words before he could stop himself. Crowley just lifted a brow at him, the lazy almost-question making Aziraphale’s chains rattle as he twisted his hands together.

Not the time to be thinking of how indecent Crowley made being dressed like a commoner looked. Never the time. He inhaled, his eyes doing another nervous once-over before they settled on Crowley’s face.

He’d consider that _later_.

“What the deuce are you doing, locked up in the _Bastille_?” Crowley asked. “I thought you were opening a book shop?”

Ah, right.

That hasty, poorly thought out plan to explain his numerous collections of texts. He winced again. Gabriel had been asking questions, and he’d panicked. He’d completely forgotten the word for library in all the languages he could speak, and instead had blurted out the words ‘book shop’.

He was still working out the finer details.

“Well, I was,” he said, his tone defensive. “I got peckish.”

“… _peckish_.” Crowley’s drawl walked itself down his spine and he could feel the demon’s disbelief. A powerful thing, considering it was Crowley.

“Well, if you _must_ know, it was the crepes,” Aziraphale said, sinking back down onto his stool. “You can’t get any decent ones anywhere but Paris.”

Crowley’s confusion further deepened, his eyebrows lifting as Aziraphale spoke.

“…and the brioche,” he finished, lamely.

“So…” Crowley’s rasp had just the tiniest edge of judgment—which, fair, but still—and Aziraphale almost bristled at it. Almost. “You just _popped_ across the Channel during a revolution, because you wanted something to _nibble_? Dressed like that?”

“I have standards!” Aziraphale blurted, then looked away. “I’d heard they were getting a bit carried away over here, but—”

“Yeah, this is not getting _carried away_.” Crowley’s gaze flickered toward the barred window, the minute tilt of his head easy for Aziraphale to read after all these centuries. “This is cutting off lots of people’s heads very efficiently, with a big head-cutting machine. Why didn’t you just perform another miracle and go home?”

Ah.

Well. That had been the crux of the problem, hadn’t it? It was either fill out discorporation paperwork, or fill out a formal written reprimand for his frivolous miracles.

“I was reprimanded, last month,” he said. “They said I’d performed too many frivolous miracles. Got a strongly worded note from Gabriel.”

Crowley’s lips wrinkled back from his teeth in a silent sneer at the archangel’s name. It wasn’t as though Aziraphale didn’t sometimes feel the same way—but there were manners to be observed, after all.

“Well, you’re lucky I was in the area,” Crowley said, tilting his head so that Aziraphale could just see the golden flash of his pupils.

“I suppose I am,” he said. Suspicion bloomed in his chest, then. “Why are you here?”

Surely not just to save him. Surely not.

“My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance,” Crowley said. It was lazy, as though he didn’t think much of a kudos.

“So, all this is your demonic work?” Aziraphale said, rising to his feet. He didn’t know if he was more upset by the idea that Crowley had sown this level of discord, or that it wasn’t just him wanting to feel…wanted.

Aziraphale wanted Crowley to have come for his sake, nothing more.

_Fool me once, shame on me._

“No! The humans thought it up themselves,” Crowley said. “Nothing to do with me. There’s not even a whole lot of prisoners left in here—not for their lack of trying, but because they keep getting moved out. Whole place is in a huge upheaval.”

Aziraphale frowned.

Even after all these millennia, there was still the question of trust. In himself, in Crowley, in what he’d been told. Questions, bubbling up since Mesopotamia, since feeling the Euphrates lick at his sandals during a rainstorm.

Perhaps since before even then.

Crowley reached out, snapping his fingers. The rush of a small miracle bloomed between them, and his manacles dropped free from his wrists.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, his breath leaving him in a small rush. “I suppose I should say thank you, for the—ah—rescue.”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley said, pushed to motion by the words. “If my people hear I’ve rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble—and my lot do not send _rude notes_.”

He was tension, then, long and lean and whiplashed forward, intensity even behind his spectacles.

Aziraphale sighed. Once again, the wrong thing to say.

“Well. Anyway, I’m very grateful,” he said. “What about if I buy you lunch?”

“Looking like that?”

Aziraphale glanced down at his waistcoat, the mother of pearl buttons and inlaid gold thread shimmering in the weak sunlight from the window.

He sighed, softly. He’d very much liked this coat. He gestured, trading clothing with his jailer, who was still in the process of turning around. He hadn’t made it nearly as far as he likely thought he had; the human brain was not capable of processing what was happening within the bounds of the demonic miracle.

That was the beauty of these things, and the terror, perhaps. The human mind was also delightfully good at explaining those things away, Aziraphale had found.

Wonderful creations, humans.

Well, except for the murders.

“Barely counts as a miracle, anyway.” He frowned, dressed like a member of the _sans-culotte_. “Better?”

“Mm.” Crowley turned his attention to the window, and he could feel the sluggish flow of time begin to speed again, rushing forward in leaps and bounds to catch up to where it had been before.

The guards came in, hauling away the man who had, moments before, talked about separating Aziraphale’s head from his shoulders. There was a smug sense of satisfaction from the demon beside him, his lips kicked up in the smallest of smiles.

“He’s asking for trouble, dressed like that,” Crowley said, leaning in to murmur it to Aziraphale like it were a great secret.

Crowley was dangerous, in the way that fire was dangerous. It would be unwise to think that he’d ever tamed him. Aziraphale vowed to keep that in mind.

“What’s for lunch?”

Aziraphale promptly forgot his previous vow, beaming at Crowley.

“What would you say to some crepes?” he asked.

 

* * *

 

Dig your roots deep, my love, and stand fast.

 

* * *

 

Tony leaned against the warm brick of the building. Bar Soho wasn’t terribly packed, and the crowds had thinned a little closer to midnight. It might pick up, as the place was open until three, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered now was that he was waiting.

And he didn’t have to wait long.

He could pick out that head of blond curls like a magnet, and it was almost disturbing how hard he’d been looking behind his sunglasses. Still, he pushed off the wall and sauntered over, catching up behind him and leaning in.

“Looking for someone?”

Ezra startled with a small shriek, turning in place. His elbow caught Tony right in the stomach, and he wheezed, doubling over.

“Oh! Land’s sakes, Tony. Are you quite all right?” Ezra put an arm around him to help him brace as he got his wind back.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Tony said, sucking wind until he could breathe again. He started to laugh once he felt he could, despite the ache in his solar plexus. “Suppose I deserved that.”

“Maybe a bit,” Ezra said. He stepped away once he was sure that Tony was good and able to stand on his own. Tony stopped himself from following along, but only just.

It was said with such mischief that Tony knew he’d made a good choice, calling Ezra out tonight.

Somehow, it seemed like a fantastic idea in bed and now it was even better in person.

Ezra was a fan of bow ties, it seemed. He was wearing one now, a button up shirt and a vest, his trousers and shoes unassuming as well. He didn’t stand out in the way that most people hoped to in Soho, and that was okay—Tony wanted to keep the secret there to himself for a little while longer. He was hardly frumpy, though some people might call it that. His clothes fit him well, like they were tailored.

Tony could appreciate that, and he showed it by smiling at Ezra, who grinned in return.

“You don’t look sleepy,” Tony said.

“Neither do you,” Ezra replied. “But we weren’t here to sleep, were we?”

“Not at all,” Tony said. He offered his arm. “Drink?”

“Please.” Ezra took it, tucking his hand in the crook of Tony’s elbow.

Small victories.

 

* * *

 

Two glasses of rather good Chilean wine in him, and Ezra was feeling very good indeed.

He didn’t often drink anymore, but with Tony, it seemed natural. He didn’t mind letting his guard down here. The bar in question was a nice place, with squashy benches and tables to sit at, with enough space that no one felt crowded in. It was dark, but not so dark he couldn’t see his companion. The music was quiet, not overwhelming, though there was another room where dancing was available.

Good thing they’d moved to this room instead. Ezra didn’t dance much.

“So, what made you go into selling books, of all things?” Tony asked, sprawled in his chair beside Ezra. Long limbs were loose, and he rolled the stem of the wine glass between his fingers.

Ezra leaned his head back. “I think it was the lack of options.”

“Really?” Tony perked up; those golden-brown eyes fixed on his face. Ezra squirmed a bit. “You don’t seem like the type who’ll do something you don’t want to do. Rather fussy.”

“Fussy?” Ezra puffed his cheeks out. Tony merely watched him, amused as he rested his chin in his palm, his glasses tucked into the front pocket of his shirt. Ezra decided on whether or not he was offended, and settled for conceding the point instead.

“I’m hardly. But. Well, yes, perhaps you’re right. A bit.”

Tony laughed, the sound low and pleasant, sliding up one side of him and down the other like a caress.

“Why the lack of options?” Tony asked after a moment, taking another sip of his wine. They’d been working on the bottle between them, plummy and sweet, and Ezra felt like he could do this every night, if the alcohol didn’t have such a hangover waiting to ambush him in the morning.

He sighed at the question, running his tongue over his teeth. Tony’s eyes were fixed on his face, though Ezra couldn’t help but have the feeling that he was focused on his mouth.

Not that he minded, so much. Quite the contrary.

“It’s just…well. I never felt the need to complete more than a nominal course or two at university,” he said. “I like to read, but higher education is less about reading and more about developing your own opinions about what you’re reading, usually in a slap fight with eight other gents at the same time who all have different opinions.”

Tony laughed softly again. “University isn’t everything.”

“Isn’t it, though? I lucked out finding this job. Most others aren’t so lucky.”

Tony conceded the point, giving him a half-shrug. “You still know your stuff. The book shop is lucky to have you.”

“Oh, have you read your book on orchids, then?” Ezra asked, feeling delight tug the corners of his mouth up.

“Not—not yet,” Tony hedged. “I’ve been meaning to get to it.”

“Oh.” Ezra fiddled with a cocktail napkin. “But may I ask what it is that you do? I know you said restorations over the phone, but—”

“I restore vintage cars,” he said with another uptick of his lips. Tony didn’t smile with his mouth so much as he did with his eyes. Usually the only indication that Ezra could tell the other man was amused was that lift of his lips.

It made coaxing an actual smile out of him rewarding.

“And you’re all right staying up until all hours to have a drink with me?” Ezra asked.

“I can make the exception,” Tony said. “Besides, I’m the boss. I’ll just fire me if I show up late too many times.”

Ezra gave a breathy laugh that turned into a chortle, and he ducked his nose into his glass. The wine really was getting to his head, he thought. He could feel the heat radiate pleasantly through his limbs, up his cheeks and in his chest.

He’d been right to come out.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the bartender called. “We’re about to close up. Any last orders?”

Tony looked down at the bottle. “Top you up?”

“Oh, please,” Ezra said. He held out his glass and Tony split the last of the wine between them before he wandered up to the bar to settle the tab and return the bottle. Ezra leaned back in his little seat, contemplating how nice this escape out had been.

It hadn’t felt like any of his other dates—not that this was a date—and maybe that was the point? Finding someone specifically to share his time with him.

Definitely a good idea.

Ezra polished off the last of his wine, rising to walk to where Tony was tipping the bartender. He set his empty glass on the bar, beaming a little too widely at the bartender. He was definitely feeling the effects of the alcohol.

Tony merely signed his slip and passed it back before he drained his own glass.

“Walk you home?” he asked.

“Yes, I rather think that would be nice,” Ezra said.

 

* * *

 

It was, as Ezra put it, nice. Tony had been surprised to find that the night had turned cool but pleasant, Soho’s streets still busy with cars but seeming almost muted in a strange way. The alcohol must’ve helped. It was making him feel loose and relaxed, and from the other man’s slightly shifting walk, it was the same for Ezra.

“This has been fun,” he managed, as they turned for the book shop. He’d been humming something tuneless, but the thought popped out before he could get a rein on his tongue.

“Mm,” Ezra said. Tony turned his gaze on him, finding Ezra focused on his steps. “It was a pleasant evening.”

“Glad you think so,” Tony said. He put his hand on Ezra’s elbow to steady him, only to end up steering them both a bit into the wall. He laughed. Ezra joined him.

Soon, they were leaning against the wall for support, giggling like children.

“We should do this again,” Tony said. He and Ezra were close, holding onto each other to keep upright, warm and closer than close.

“Yes,” Ezra said, looking up at him. His hazel eyes were blown wide and dark, his mouth stained with the red of the wine, lips parted as they gazed at each other. The distance between them spanned eternities. It could be breached in seconds.

Tony caught himself leaning in, but straightened, instead offering Ezra his hand. He wasn’t sure who was more disappointed in that moment, but he was grateful when Ezra linked his plump fingers with Tony’s.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” Tony said, softly. “I can’t believe you lucked out into an apartment over your shop.”

“It’s nice, really,” Ezra said, humming the words. “Such a short commute.”

“Good for someone who doesn’t drive.” Ezra beamed at him. “But then, I don’t make fancy cars.”

“I don’t make them,” Tony protested, laughing again. “I restore them. Big difference.”

“Oh, I see.” Ezra said. “Well, no, actually, I don’t, but…”

“I’ll show you sometime,” Tony promised, as they rounded the corner. D’Angelo’s was dimmed, the lights left low for Ezra’s return. He peered up at the little windows above the shop, wondering which one Ezra looked out of in the morning as he made his tea.

Maybe one day he’d find out.

“Here you are,” Tony said. “Got your key?”

“Mm-hm,” Ezra said. He fished in his pocket for the key ring, and unlocked the door. “Come up?”

Tony leaned back on his heels. “I don’t think tonight is good.”

“It’s not?” Ezra asked. “But—”

“We’re both drunk,” Tony said. “But trust me, I’d like to do this again. Be patient with me?”

Ezra huffed a little, but softened as Tony moved closer. With him standing a step above, they were eye level. Tony took Ezra’s hand, bringing the soft knuckles to his lips. He brushed them, feather light, then returned Ezra’s hand.

“I’ll text you later, okay?” he asked, eyes on Ezra’s face, how the other’s lips parted in a sigh as he pulled away.

“All right,” Ezra said.

Tony waited for Ezra to get inside and throw the locks before he stuck his hand in his pockets, turned, and walked home. If he started whistling halfway there, well. The only witnesses were the stars.

The stars and one other being.

_“There you are…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, they got the date wrong for Paris. Not sure if it's been brought up before by anyone else, but the Bastille was overthrown in 1789. Basically, it would have been impossible for Aziraphale to have been held there in 1794. But that's okay.
> 
> I can fix things. :3c
> 
> Also, gentle reminder: I am working 60+ hours a week and turning out three thousand words of fic every couple of days. I'm doing my best. I know it might seem short, but in the end there will be volume to make up for it. (Wordcount wise, we're approaching Animal Farm in length at 29,966 words.) I appreciate your patience and encouragement, very much so. Thank you for reading!


	7. Adam Raised a Cain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It follows. It was only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 
>       _In the Bible Cain slew Abel
>     And East of Eden he was cast
>     You're born into this life paying
>     For the sins of somebody else's past
>     Daddy worked his whole life for nothing but the pain
>     Now he walks these empty rooms looking for something to blame
>     You inherit the sins, you inherit the flames
>     Adam raised a Cain
>     
>     -Bruce Springsteen_
>     

**[Susa, Elam – Some Time Ago]**

“I don’t know how you can drink anything, let alone that—” Hastur said, gesturing at the clay cup full of wine in Crawly’s hand.

The other demon shrugged. “Got to have some fun around here.”

“Hmph.” Hastur wasn’t great company—he had an angel to thank for his high standards, didn’t he now—and Crawly sort of wished he was alone to enjoy his fermented grapes. Humans were crafty little things, he had to admit.

At least the angel might agree with him there, he thought. Frowning, he kept the emotion from his face as he took in the sight of Hastur, Duke of Hell, inexpertly swaddled in what appeared to be stained traveler’s robes. Crawly couldn’t really fault him; it wasn’t as if it was his job to blend in with the crowds.

Oh, wait, yes it was. Hastur was _so bad_ at it.

He’d been on earth since the Garden, and he’d found plenty to entertain himself with; it wasn’t as though Hastur had much to work with by accusing him of sloth. He’d sent plenty of souls to their deserving ends—and always with a choice. Even so, Crawly found that his job to tempt the humans to Hell was a futile effort, all told. There was plenty he could do with a whisper that would keep souls funneling downstairs for decades, and usually, he didn’t have to exert himself too much. Half the time and sometimes more than half the time, they did it to themselves.

That left him with plenty of time to sit back and watch as civilization advanced.

That tower had been a bit of a miss, on his part, but he’d had to be sure that there wasn’t a way back. He’d made amends by turning the ones that spoke the same toward the same general areas, telling them to stick together. He traveled about, watching them develop farming and focus on grapes and wheat, watching as they started to ferment them. Alcohol was an excellent way to pass the time, he found.

As a bonus, it even affected his own vessel, for which he was, well, not thankful but _pleased_ to discover.

“Well, regardless,” Hastur said. Crawly forced himself to pay attention. “Let us recount the deeds of the day.”

Oh, here he went again.

Demons were, as a rule, competitive with each other. It seemed to stem back from the Fall, as though they were still fighting over who cared the least about Heaven and their lost grace. Each demon wasn’t required to recount their deeds, but it was a way of defining oneself through the pecking order, if one wished to keep one’s standing.

Crawly, for the record, didn’t much care. However, because Hastur _did_ , he resolved to be as irritating as possible about it.

“Well, go on, then,” he said, gesturing at Hastur.

“I have been walking through the temples in Terqa,” Hastur said, his voice lowered and dripping with obvious pride. “I have spoken and turned one of their holy men, their worships have been tainted by bad sacrifice and sloth. Within the next five years, Hell will claim his soul. I trod the markets, in Nineveh, and I spoke to one of the wives at market. She will spread gossip and rumors throughout her village, ending in her and her family being ostracized. She will sow discord, and in three years, she shall belong to Hell.”

Crawly gave him an appraising look. Not bad, for a demon working on his own; Hastur was loath to keep company with other demons unless commanded—the only exception being Ligur, another self-styled Duke.

That was the problem with demons, however—with the exception of Crawly. They lacked imagination. Crawly had the foresight to look at the big picture, work out a solution, and try new things. It made him a go-getter downstairs, but terribly unpopular. The head office loved his reports, when he bothered to even send the damn things. The other demons, not so much. He was kept up top, which he preferred, but they saw him as a lickspittle.

Hastur was no exception; he’d been gunning for Crawly since Eden.

“That’s a nice bit of work,” Crawly said, though not to stroke Hastur’s ego. He’d prefer to be hated, if he were quite honest. “Let’s see.”

He rummaged around in his knapsack, a small bag he’d worked up together to carry small items of importance these days. He didn’t carry much; mainly trinkets to help keep up the impression that he was a traveling peddler. But this? This he was proud of.

He passed the clay tablet over, Hastur taking it and peering at it with his blackened eyes.

“What is this?”

“The future, mate,” Crawly said. He gestured at it. “Go on, give that a read.”

“I don’t read,” Hastur sneered.

“Oh, right, I forgot.” Crawly rolled his yellow eyes, holding out his hand for the cuneiform tablet. “This, my demonic _chum_ , is a customer complaint.”

“A what.” Hastur seemed to gloss over the venom in the word _chum_ , which was a pity, because Crawly was hoping ever so much that it would have caused an argument. “What nonsense is this?”

“A customer complaint,” Crawly said, ticking his tongue on the end of the last word, giving it an appropriately smarmy-sounding ‘tuh’ noise. “You see, I’ve fashioned myself a bit of a businessman. Wriggled my way into the marketplace at Ur. I was set up to do a good amount of business, get the lay of the land, and then I got to thinking.”

“Satan save us,” Hastur grumbled.

“Well, the thought occurred to me—we’re going about this all wrong,” Crawly said. “Why not make as many as possible sink to our level?”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Hastur asked, giving the tablet another disdainful look.

“Right, okay—” Crawly tapped the clay tablet. “Listen to this. _When you came, you said to me as follows: ‘I will give Gimil-Sin fine quality copper ingots.’ You left then but you did not do what you promised me. You put ingots which were not good before my messenger and said: ‘If you want to take them, take them; if you do not want to take them, go away!’_ It’s amazing how worked up they get about bits of metal you can find on the ground!”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Hastur said, still looking dubious.

“ _Obviously_ , it has everything to do with it,” Crawly said. “What d’you think they’re going to do when my friend Ea-Nasir gives them yet another shipment of shitty copper? They’re going to be so upset, why, they’ll take it out on everyone within reach! Servants, spouses, children. It creates ripples, Hastur. Bad vibes all around. Why influence one or two people, when we could influence hundreds, maybe thousands, at a time?”

“That’s stupid. There’s not thousands of them.” Hastur scoffed, shaking his head.

“Where have you been, mate?” Crawly said. “There’s got to be a good several thousand in this city alone.”

“Can’t be,” Hastur said.

“You really can’t have missed the whole command to go forth, be fruitful, and _multiply_?” Crawly gave Hastur an incredulous look. “How do you even function?”

“You keep forgetting that I outrank you, Crawly,” Hastur said, his voice a low snarl.

“For now,” Crawly said, shrugging one shoulder, almost lazily. He wasn’t lazy, though he was draped on the bench like he hadn’t a care in the world. In reality, if Hastur decided, he could attempt to discorporate Crawly for his cheek and they’d have a brawl on their hands—but he had a feeling that this plan had more merit than they gave him credit for, at least for now.

Hastur frowned, drumming filthy nails on the tabletop.

“Oi,” Crawly called, lifting his fingers to get the innkeeper’s attention. “C’mere, mate.”

The man shuffled over, ducking his head to give a full view of a full head of closely oiled curls. He was an older man, but still no grey hair yet. Thick lines from the sun etched his face, though, turning it the leathery texture of someone who earned his keep through labor.

Crawly produced a coin from his satchel. He spun it on the table top, letting it stop between two of his outstretched fingers, the edges of the coin pressed between them. The human watched the sheen of the currency.

Easy enough temptation.

“Settle a bet for us, mate.” Crawly let the words drip off his tongue, like honey from the comb. He was good at this, good at suggesting, convincing. Conniving and talking his way around and through and over a problem until it wasn’t anymore. “And you’ll get this.”

“Of course, sir, whatever I can do to help.”

Crawly gave him an appraising look. “How many humans do you think live here?”

“What?” the man asked.

“Here, on earth. How many humans do you think live here?” Crawly danced the coin across his knuckles, letting the brass piece catch the light.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” the innkeeper said, watching the play of light and shadow as the coin traveled across Crawly’s pale knuckles. “There are so many of us.”

“Mm. All right. Something easier then. How many people live in this city?” he asked.

“There must be thousands of us,” said the innkeeper. “So many new faces at festivals, and the temples. Hundreds of hundreds, it seems like.”

“Hm.” Crawly flicked the coin at him, and snapped his fingers. “You won’t remember this conversation.”

The innkeeper caught the coin and shuffled his way back to the kitchen, looking a little dazed.

“You’re getting soft,” Hastur said. “What good are they? Don’t even know how many of them there are, and they _made_ them _themselves_.”

“No, you’re just stupid,” Crawly sneered. “I can’t believe you don’t know how many humans exist. Breed like rats. Less tasty though.”

“I beg to differ,” Hastur said, picking at his teeth with one of his ragged thumbnails.

“You’ve eaten one?” Crawly asked, feeling rather queasy.

“In a manner of speaking,” Hastur said. He gestured at the clay tablet. “This isn’t going to earn you points downstairs.”

“We’ll see.” Crawly said. He put the idea of Hastur consuming—well, anything, really—out of his mind. “Why’re you in town, anyway?”

“A warning,” Hastur said. “Hell has news.”

Crawly poured himself more wine. “Do tell.”

“There are miracles being performed around this area,” Hastur said. “We suspect that the angel Aziraphale has been assigned to bless this area. Be wary, he is a formidable foe.”

Crawly lifted his brows. “Well, I always did like a good tussle. Message received.”

It would do no good to thank Hastur. Crawly didn’t mean it, for one; for another, Hastur wouldn’t understand the concept. But the news. That was exciting indeed.

He hadn’t seen the angel in a number of years. Funny how he always managed to find the most appealing spots to run into him again.

When he looked over to where Hastur sat, the other demon was gone as quickly as he’d arrived. Crawly was glad for that; he would never _not_ be happy to see the back of Hastur.

* * *

 

This will be painful. Of course it will. It hurts to Become, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

He’d been a better hunter than a tempter. Always. It was never his wont to sit back and let the humans do the work for him. He was always better off taking what he sought than persuading someone to hand it over.

That really was his strength.

It had shown when he’d whispered to Cain that Abel had more than enough, he didn’t need the Almighty’s favor, too. Abel spent his days in leisure, casually giving a fatted lamb from his herd. The Almighty knew how hard Cain had worked to bring forth the wheat from the ground. The blood and sweat and tears. How unfair it was.

He should do something about that, shouldn’t he?

Are you your brother’s keeper?

Are you?

_Are you?_

Now, as he stood beneath the street lamp, watching the man wander down the street, his eyes burning like the cherry of a lit cigarette in the dark—he remembered why he liked the hunt.

Hastur had always been a simple demon. He tempted, as he was able. He worked within the hierarchy to gain exactly what was needed, his star rising even as the Morningstar had fallen. There was a gap to be filled, where hungry newborn demons had vied for power and prestige, and he’d done the slogging work. He’d done what was asked, all of it, through the muck and the filth, down on his belly with the rest of the Fallen.

All of them except for Crawly.

No matter what he’d done, the serpent had always seemed two steps ahead. First to earth. First to be given the job of temptation. First to talk himself into the role. First to remain, instead of returning to the filth where he belonged.

And the head office had seen fit to give him credit. Kudos. Hastur could choke on the kudos he’d brought to Crawly, the bitter taste of it drowning out even the hand rolled cigarettes he favored. He had one vice, and since he had no lungs to kill, he reveled in the taste, the buzz of nicotine in his system.

He’d wanted to deliver the child himself.

He’d been told no, as he had when he’d wanted to tempt Eve with the apple.

 _You haven’t the words for this, Hastur._ He’d had words enough; curses, screamed at a wall with signs that told him not to lick. _You haven’t the experience, Hastur._ He’d had enough experience with rejection to know that like a lover, her caress as fetid and clammy as the hand of a corpse, waxy against his chest.

He could have done this.

But no. The honor went to Crawly. The demon who wasn’t, the coward king sitting on his throne of posh London living, fancy clothing and house plants and _holy water_.

He could still hear Ligur’s screams.

That was, perhaps, reason enough for him to stalk the lanky man through the streets. Vengeance was a simple answer to an even simpler question. Had he not been the one to warp the idea of Hammurabi’s code? Defiler, corrupter of laws and rules, fascism hidden beneath a white collar. Salt of the earth, when it was racism, xenophobia. Hatred.

What Hastur lacked in subtlety he made up for in cruelty, earning himself accolades during the two Great Wars.

His true rewards hadn’t been gifted to him. He’d been cheated. Robbed, as all demons had been robbed. They’d been salivating at a chance to go to war with Heaven once more; Hastur knew quite a few demons kept lists. He didn’t bother with that, knowing that his wrath would be enough to wreak havoc in the angelic ranks.

And then…the war wasn’t.

He’d been proven right, not that it had mattered.

He could still hear Ligur’s screams.

He shook his head, flicking the butt of his cigarette into someone’s back garden as he walked. He could see the shock of red hair that marked Crawly like a brand. Always the need to stand out, to preen. To be _better_ than he actually was. Hastur’s lips rolled back from his teeth.

Am I my brother’s keeper?

_Am I?_

**_Am I?_ **

**_ Am I? _ **

Thunder rolled over Soho, lightning spreading fingers of white, jagged light across the clouds that had gathered. Hastur didn’t mind. Rain had long ago lost Her power. Water wasn’t holy until it was Holy, and even then, that was easily avoided.

_He’s never heard that sound before, not from another demon, that raw and unfiltered terror as smoke roiled from beneath the plastic bucket, charred chemicals and cooking flesh filling the air with a noxious stench—_

Crawly had betrayed them, and somehow Beelzebub had decided that banishing him to his favorite place, with his favorite person, was suitable to sate his need for vengeance. It had barely whet Hastur’s appetite. He was salivating for this chance, and now he’d found them, carefully stalking Crawly to and from, watching his patterns.

Somehow, even though his memories were well and truly gone, he’d found the blessed angel again. He was living as though he had no punishment at all. Beelzebub seemed to be happy about that.

Respect to the Lord Beelzebub but they were full of shit.

Might explain the flies, really.

Hastur watched the rain sluice down, sending Crawly running for his door. The same flat, in the same obnoxious part of Soho. How had he missed it?

 _You know_.

No Bentley. At least Beelzebub had made good on their word, there. No powers. No miracles.

Hastur considered this as he watched the lights flicker on inside the flat where he knew Crawly had lived before. The plan was so simple, yet so complicated. What was to stop him from taking what he wanted? What was to stop him from keeping Crawly alive for centuries pinned to a wall like a specimen?

Nothing, that’s what.

Hastur’s lips lifted in a genuine smile, causing the light above him to shatter in its casing and shower him with broken glass. Hastur didn’t flinch, but turned and walked away.

He had to decide where he wanted to start, first.

And once he was done with Crawly, he could start in on the angel. Keep them both alive, watching each other suffer. Not remembering but horrified all the same. It was better than killing them outright.

Hastur deserved more.

Ligur deserved better.

Maybe he’d charge admission once he was satisfied. Let the other demons take their turn.

He’d have to think on that a bit.

* * *

Tony peered out into the rain. It was coming down in buckets, soaking him to the bone and sobering him up enough that he thought a hot shower and curling back up in bed were fine ideas. He dried his hair, looking out into the street.

It had felt like he was being watched.

He had no idea how, or from where, but it had been enough to raise his hackles and send gooseflesh skittering up his back. There was nothing to be seen from his window; the streetlight on the corner had burnt out, leaving the area dim and blurry in the falling rain.

He pulled out his phone and texted Ezra.

_Home safe. Thought u’d wanna know._

Ezra’s reply was a thank you, coupled with a good night. And a smiley.

Tony’s smile kicked his lips up at the corners. He’d seemed tired when he’d let himself inside. Was that good night a sleepy one, with Ezra already tucked into bed?

It would be a good look on him.

Tony tossed his phone on the charger, turning away from the window. Just in case, however, he drew the blinds.

Who knew what was out there in the dark?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it is indeed [that Ea-Nasir](https://www.forbes.com/sites/kristinakillgrove/2018/05/11/meet-the-worst-businessman-of-the-18th-century/#2683da502d5d) that you're thinking of. I'm not the first to headcanon or embrace it, but for my money, it's almost guaranteed Crowley had a hand in that.
> 
> I apologize for the mini-hiatus, Constant Readers. I had a bit of a break scheduled, both to celebrate my birthday and to take a break from all things, work included. This will resume, and I will finish it hopefully by the end of August, if not sooner.
> 
> Thank you again for all your kind words. I will endeavor to update as regularly as I can, but please keep in mind, I'm only human.
> 
> If you like this, and you'd like to read more, I have a collection of drabbles I put together from prompts on tumblr - [_Sing to Me, O Solomon_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19189150/chapters/45615982). It updates as I fill them, though the series is marked complete for my own peace of mind.
> 
> I also have another one-shot based on Crowley and Aziraphale sharing the same vessel - [_Asymmetry_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19756156#main%22).
> 
> If you're looking for more to read, might I suggest Bearfeathers' wonderful drabble collection - _[there'll be talk of what this is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19277032/chapters/45845644)_?
> 
> There's also my friend Kami's [entire work list](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamibanani/pseuds/kamibanani) at this point when they went tumbling head over heels after me into fandom. I definitely suggest getting in on the ground floor of _Love, Retribution, and Other Inconveniences_ , that one's gonna be gorgeous - they've already done cover art for it as well and it's super lovely.


	8. Light in the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday nights are for meetings, both scheduled and not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 
>       _Ooh, crazy's what they think about me
>     Ain't gonna stop 'cause they tell me so
>     'Cause 99 miles per hour baby,
>     Is how fast that I like to go._
>     
> 
> — Fitz and the Tantrums, The Walker

**[Square de Suisses, Paris – June 1940]**

“Papers, please,” said the man in the uniform, holding out his hand expectantly. Aziraphale wiggled his fingers, subtly, leaning on the stone wall that ran around the square.

“I’ve just had them back from you, my good man,” he said. “Surely you haven’t forgotten already?”

He did look tired, Aziraphale thought, taking his leave from the bewildered officer. A minor miracle, and the man’s eyes dulled with familiarity, convinced he’d already dismissed the angel.

It was a good thing he had deliveries to make, otherwise he’d have stayed and encouraged him into a different line of work. Being in a hurry made everyone’s eyes pass over him, blending him far better than a miracle ever could. He clutched his bag tighter, sliding through the foot traffic along the Seine.

It was much more hushed, much less lively than his last trip two months ago. Sobering, in fact. The war loomed ever closer, with the German lines pushing ever closer to Paris. The French were fighting for each and every inch, but the crawl of the beast seemed inexorable. Aziraphale had followed the news with an avid and almost morbid fascination, much like every other Londoner.

The thought had occurred to him, then, that he could put his skills to better use. He’d made several trips over already, by boat when he could and by miracle when there were no boats available—walking over water wasn’t fashionable these days, but it got the job done, he found—and he had more news.

Now, however, he had another calling. Heaven had told him to stick to London, to avoid getting Involved.

That wasn’t how Aziraphale had ever worked, and he would trust Heaven to realize this by now, but…

He breathed a sigh as he slipped into the building beside the park, the darkness only marginally cooler than the heat of the day outside. Up the stairs he went, hurrying more now than when he was out in the open air, working toward the garret at the top. He opened the door, knocking in the correct way, and stepped inside. The stuffy room had its windows thrown wide, the desks crowded against them for the barest hint of a breeze and for the good light to be obtained during the day.

He removed his hat, setting his case to the side. Seven people occupied this room; all of them turned at his entrance, most of them standing. Thin faces, overworked, bent backs and crooked shoulders, tired eyes and weary brows.

They did important work. It was why Aziraphale was here. Their leader, a tall Frenchman with olive skin and dark hair falling into his eyes extended his hand as the angel looked about the room. Aziraphale knew him as Penguin; he knew his true name, though it was rude to elucidate that fact, especially for their own safety. It came with the territory.

He could know everything down to the deepest desires that a person had, but in order to accomplish his mission, he needed to play by their rules. To inspire—because only demons _tempted_ someone, you see—he needed their trust, their belief.

And so, to these people, he was Ezra Fell—part of A. Z. Fell & Co, part time forger and information runner. He was their document man, and they had to trust him or things fell apart.

“Monsieur Fell,” said Penguin, shaking his hand. “You have news?”

“A bit,” Aziraphale said, smiling. He hung his hat and removed his jacket. “But first, I thought a little lunch might be in order?”

Their faces fell, shuttering.

“We haven’t the rations,” Penguin said, his French blunted with the English he spoke for Aziraphale. “We do not have so much. The cards, they were short—”

“My dear _fellows_!” Aziraphale said, tutting. “You think I would invite myself into your company without bringing gifts?”

His eyes danced as he reached for his bag. Within was a hamper of food and drink, which, if they looked too closely, might be bottomless. (It wasn’t, but Aziraphale certainly knew how to make the most of space given to him.) Bread, wine, good cheese and sausages, smoked fish and apples, and little cakes appeared, mounding on the table. The gaunt faces of the men and women lit up, and they clustered around the table, divvying up the spoils. Aziraphale returned to his bag, pulling out the envelope with the sheaves of needed papers inside.

Penguin turned to him, offering him a battered tin cup of the wine. Aziraphale accepted, handing over the envelope in return.

“There you are, as much as I could get my hands on,” he said. “It was tricky, getting some of this out of Berlin, but my men are the best.”

“These will save many lives,” Penguin said, nodding. He popped the seal on the envelope with his thumb, sliding the documents out one by one. Birth certificates, passports, travel visas. German and Polish and everything in between, anything to give them something to work with. All expertly pilfered from various places, brought here, to the heart of Paris for a very specific reason.

Being a dealer in rare and valuable books for so long had earned him a set of skills. Not only was he capable of spotting most forgeries, he was capable of creating skilled replicas of texts, should he wish. Never before had he needed it for deception; he’d only ever used it for repairs or to refresh a text that had grown old and faded beyond what was readable.

Skillsets had a way of becoming useful in ways he never imagined, he found.

He watched the forgers for a moment, sharing a meal that would nourish them far more than their rations and Jerusalem artichokes would. It was so little, but to them, right now, it was everything. He would continue to do what he could, where he could. Bringing them passports meant that many more people could get away from the fighting.

It was hope. It would do.

“Come here,” Penguin said, gesturing to a young man hanging on the edge of the impromptu feast. He separated himself from the table and slouched over, looking at Aziraphale with a wary eye. He smiled, but it wasn’t returned.

He was a new one; Aziraphale didn’t remember him at all from previous trips over the channel.

Penguin handed him the documents, and the lad tucked them into his jacket without a cursory glance. He radiated a sort of sullen watchfulness, as though he’d already seen too much. Aziraphale had seen this on too many young faces during this war. It was his hope that his work here would prevent it for many more.

Adolfo was his name. He didn’t voice it, nor did Aziraphale acknowledge it. Secrecy was best; secrecy saved lives. Aziraphale tucked it away for later, offering the young man his hand. After a moment, he took it, shaking it slowly.

“Do your best,” he said, imbuing the words with a blessing for swiftness and accuracy, for energy even during trials. For _hope_.

Solemnly, the young man nodded. “Of course.”

It was all he could do, spreading his miracles about as best he could. He was only one angel, and the world was at war.

 

* * *

 

Not all change is growth. Ever upwards, my love—beware of sideways, it will only distract you.

 

* * *

 

The book shop was open late tonight. Tony pushed himself inside, shaking off what seemed to be a chill at the end of August, hunching into his jacket as he closed the door behind him. Rafael looked up at the jingle of the bell, beaming at him.

“Why, Mister Crowley!” he said. “I’ve been hearing quite a bit about you.”

Tony felt color creeping up into his neck from the area of his collar. He propped his sunglasses on top of his head. “Oh?”

“Mm,” the bookseller said. “Ezra is quite taken with you.”

Tony couldn’t quite meet Rafael’s eyes, which seemed to amuse the other man. There was a brief, almost tense silence, and then Rafael pointed towards the meeting room.

“He’s in there. They should be finished soon.”

“They?” he asked.

“It’s Wednesday.” Rafael shrugged. “You’ll see.”

Tony shoved his hands into his pockets, heading toward the meeting room. There was chattering going on, chattering that stopped once he opened the door. There, in a circle around the conference table, a group of about twelve kids turned to look at him. Ezra sat at the head of the table, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth as he stared. Someone hit the pause button on the movie that was playing on a battered old television—Tony realized it was a Disney film, a boa constrictor hypnotizing a young kid frozen on the screen mid song.

“We’re busy,” said one of the kids, a punky girl in an artfully ripped black shirt, chunky swathes of blue in her blonde pigtails. Tony was forcibly reminded of one of those girls…what was it. They dressed like this to drive off attention. Harajuku? Yeah, that sounded right.

He gave her a grin, nodding at an Ezra that looked much redder around the collar than a few moments before. “Sorry. I was looking for him.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t have him.” She lifted her brows in challenge at him.

“So I see,” he said. He was fighting laughter, not wanting to bruise her ego, not in front of her friends. He remembered being that age, full of swagger. Not that he wasn’t now, but… “I can always come back later.”

“No!” Ezra shot up out of his seat. Every head swiveled to him, and he flushed harder, making his way to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Tony allowed himself to be ushered away from the conference room and toward the plant books again, as they were toward the back of the shop. Ezra had a firm grip on Tony’s jacket, pressed against the small of his back, and Tony couldn’t help but be dragged along. He didn’t mind, having the book seller so close had been part of the reason he’d dropped by, and he was always a fan of being manhandled, at least by someone he was interested in.

When they were far enough away, Ezra dithered, releasing Tony. Tony leaned against the shelving, an indulgent smirk on his face.

“I can explain—” Ezra said.

“Why?” Tony asked.

“What?” Ezra said, blinking.

“Why explain?” Tony shrugged, nodding his head toward the conference room. “They obviously like you a lot, otherwise they wouldn’t have gotten their back up at me so quickly.”

“Yes, Wednesday is meeting night,” he said, with a small sigh. “It’s a group of kids I mentor. I’d neglected to tell you.”

“Then I’ll let you get back to your meeting,” Tony said. “I was going to drop by, see if you wanted a bite to eat, maybe catch a film, but it looks like you’ve got that covered.”

“Well—” Ezra glanced over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“Maybe next time,” Tony said. “You’re busy and that’s important, too. I don’t mind coming back another time.”

Ezra glanced behind him once more, took a deep breath, and leaned up, pressing his lips to Tony’s jaw. “Thank you. I’ll make it up to you later.”

It took all of Tony’s self-control to lock his knees and stay upright.

“I look forward to it,” Tony said. It came out strangled, but it was there.

Ezra grinned at him and hurried off back to the conference room.

 

* * *

 

Ezra’s heart was hammering in his chest as he returned to the conference room. The pleased purr from Tony had been enough to make him weak in the knees, the low and husky voice he had making Ezra want to clear his schedule tomorrow night. He took a moment, taking a deep breath and smoothing his jumper before he opened the door.

Twelve chairs swiveled in his direction.

He’d known, in an abstract way, what being pinned by someone’s gaze meant. Here, he felt it in the literal sense as soon as he shut the door. Rafael had taken over for a moment, sitting at the other end of the table, but his smile was indulgent as the kids started peppering him with questions.

He was also no help whatsoever, his chin in his palm as they clamored for his attention, grinning at Ezra.

“Is he your boyfriend—”

“Mr. Fell, are you dating—”

“Mr. Fell, have you kissed him—”

“Mr. Fell, you have better taste than that—"

“All right, _all right!_ ” He didn’t like to shout, but it was hard to be heard over the din otherwise. “All of you sit down.”

“No, but seriously, you have better taste than that,” said the girl who’d whipped around to challenge Tony.

“Lizzy, _please_ ,” he said, rubbing at his temple. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything—”

“Well, everything. You’re our role model,” said Damien, a swarthy boy sitting across from Lizzy. She bumped knuckles with him.

_Lord, give me strength._

“We aren’t dating. He’s my friend.”

“Like a friend, or like a _friend_.”

“How is that appropriate?” Ezra asked. He was going redder as the questions kept coming. “Look—this isn’t—we’re not—”

He buried his face in his hands.

“All right, guys,” Rafael said. “Lay off the poor guy.”

“We just wanna know if we should beat him up.”

“Wh—no! I swear, you guys, I’m going to put _The Sound of Music_ on if you’re going to be this way.”

“Only you think that’s a punishment, Mr. Fell.”

“It is, there are far better musicals.”

That got them off the topic and onto another one, even though it was old and hotly debated.

 

* * *

 

Ezra popped the last of the pizza boxes in the bins out back, coming in and locking the door behind him. Rafael put another bag in the bin beside the conference room door, then straightened as he caught sight of Ezra.

“You know they’re just worried about you,” he said.

Ezra sighed, giving a wry smile. “I know. It’s just…I’ve no idea what to call…it.”

“You like him,” Rafael observed.

“More than I probably should,” Ezra admitted.

“Why is that?”

“Well,” Ezra said, rubbing his face. “I’m…”

He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure when he’d determined that this was overwhelming. It was perhaps the morning after, remembering the press of Tony’s lips against his knuckles, leaving him feeling overheated and restless. He’d been hungover, but the memory of that had cleared that up.

He let out a breath, an almost giddy laugh escaping him.

“I’m afraid.”

“Of this?”

“Yes,” he said. He sat at the counter, folding his hands over themselves, squeezing and twisting, staring at them. He felt the anticipation grab him, holding fast. It was terror, but sweet came with the sour, sending the feeling of free-fall through his limbs.

What was the harm in falling—so long as he knew someone would catch him?

That was the question, wasn’t it?

Would he be caught?

He startled, then, when Rafael’s hand parted his fingers, easing the strain on his knuckles. He inhaled, but all his friend did was smile.

“I think you should take the chance, _fratellino._ ” Ezra offered him a nervous smile. Rafael only squeezed his hand. “He came to see you. He’s interested, obviously.”

“I just.”

“Be afraid. But don’t let it stop you, Ezra.” Rafael offered him a grin. “He likes you.”

“I like him, too.”

“Then that’s what you build on,” Rafael said.

“What happens when it fails like all the others?” Ezra asked.

“What happens when it doesn’t?” Rafael countered. “I seem to recall that you already had a good time on a date. That’s more than one if he’s come back to see you.”

Ezra flushed.

“You’re going to be just fine,” Rafael said, giving his hand a squeeze.

 

* * *

 

Tony’s phone buzzed, rattling against his bedside table. He stuck a receipt slip in his book, setting the book on orchids to the side. He picked up his phone, feeling that strange frisson of expectation as Ezra’s name flashed on the screen.

There was that same anticipation he’d felt when Ezra’s lips had brushed his cheek, grazing the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t been…infatuated with someone like this before. It had always been a one night stand that would get this out of his system, but the more time he spent around Ezra, the more he spent thinking about him.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever get him out of his system.

He unlocked his screen.

**_I’m sorry about tonight._ **

Tony smiled, that swoop in his stomach going into a full out barrel roll. He flopped onto his side, tucking the pillow beneath him as he tapped out a reply.

_Don’t be. I said I’d come back._

**_I…thank you, for that._ **

Tony’s fingers flew over the keyboard.

_One day, I’d like to come to the meeting. Maybe?_

**_I’d like that._ **

_They seem like good kids._

**_They really are. They just want to make sure that everything is okay._ **

_Don’t want me tempting their mentor away from them, yeah?_

He rubbed at his forehead, a headache brewing. He turned down the brightness on his phone, and it eased.

**_I wouldn’t mind a bit of tempting._ **

Tony’s heartbeat sped up. He buried his face in the pillow, giving a wry chuckle.

_Careful, that’s a slippery slope._

**_I was told to be brave. So. I’m being brave._ **

_How about the Kew Gardens on Saturday?_

**_I think I’d like that._ **

_Dinner after?_

**_You’ll spoil me._ **

_So that’s a yes?_

**_Yes._ **

Tony grinned against the pillow. That had been easier than expected. He rolled back over, setting his phone back on its charger. His phone vibrated once more.

**_Good night, Tony._ **

_Good night, a—_

He squinted, backspacing. His headache was getting worse, he kept making errors. That definitely meant it was time for bed.

_Night, Ezra._

But he had a date. He’d chalk that up for a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Adolfo Kaminsky's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adolfo_Kaminsky) life is fascinating. I've fudged with dates, but Penguin was a real man, one of Kaminsky's contacts in the French Resistance. One day, Penguin and almost 300 children disappeared, and Adolfo never saw him again. If you read his biography penned by his daughter, it's rather clear he blames himself. He wasn't sure the papers he'd created were sufficient.
>
>> "Keep awake. The longer possible. Struggle against sleep. The calculation is easy. In one hour, I make 30 false papers. If I sleep one hour, 30 people will die."
> 
> I feel that Aziraphale would be drawn to the Resistance, and he's in a great position to be able to know a forgery when he sees one, and be able to create accurate replications. I really just wanted a better explanation for him being involved in the war rather than he's just 'playing at spy'. (I really don't think Aziraphale is stupid, though his shock at being about to be discorporated speaks of a naivety, he's not stupid.)
> 
> Meanwhile, I've swapped up Tony's texting style, if only because it makes it easier to read. I think I've made enough of a reference to it in previous chapters.
> 
> I'm sorry that this has taken so long, I've had a hell of a month at work, pun completely intended (I don't ever want to lick the walls at work either).


	9. A Caelo Usque Ad Centrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins, as before, in a garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 
>       _I will not ask you where you came from
>     I will not ask and neither should you
>     
>     Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips
>     We should just kiss like real people do_
>     
> 
> \-- Hozier, Like Real People Do
> 
> \------
> 
> _A Caelo Usque ad Centrum_ : From Heaven all the way to the center of the Earth.

**[1941 – an undisclosed, unusual, face to face meeting of the Twenty Committee]**

“I really think you should give this Garcia a second chance,” Crowley said. “He’s up on his business and he’s good at what he does. I’ve vetted his men.”

“Mm,” replied Masterman, around his cup of tepid tea. He danced his fingers across the files laid out in front of him, filled with Crowley’s crabbed handwriting, his eyes following the lines of text.

John Cecil Masterman was a man of letters, not of war, though Crowley knew him as being quite capable. He penned more papers than he forged plowshares, but in the grand scheme of things, it hardly mattered. Masterman had been placed exactly where Crowley needed him to be, and he was Crowley’s main point of contact for MI5. Tall and thin, with an aquiline nose and brown hair swept back at a high widow’s peak, he was the epitome of a scholar, his intelligent grey eyes bunching at the corners as he read.

Crowley rather thought Aziraphale might have liked him, if the angel had bothered to keep in touch with anything these days. Sharp mind, sharper observational skills, he was a lynch point in the whole operation.

“What’s your progress in infiltrating the rest of the _Abwehr_?”

Crowley shrugged. “We keep catching them coming in on the ships. They’re not very bright—and I say that lightly. They’re not trying hard. If they were, I’d have heard about it.”

Very few things escaped Crowley’s notice in London, and the influx of refugees were one of the first places for enemy agents to hide. Luckily, he could explain his presence in the war effort downstairs—he’d started the war, his memos had claimed. Now he was just prolonging the suffering by gumming up intelligence.

Not that they’d check. They never checked.

MI5 was lucky, indeed, that they had a demon living in the area that wanted to preserve the place as much as they did. For different reasons, but aligned all the same. (He quite liked living in London, and the angel would never forgive him his bombed-out book shop if England fell. Double edged sword, claiming you started a bloody global conflict.)

For one, Crowley could read minds, just as easily as the angel read a book. It was the heart of temptation; pluck what a man wants the most from inside his head, offer it to him, and watch him take it. For another, he quite liked where he was at, thank you, his flat in Mayfair had become something of a lair, even if he didn’t collect much.

All very carrot and stick, to put it simply. It worked for Crowley, though.

Especially now, because he could pick out the ones with ulterior motives among terrified refugees, cull the agents sent by the _Abwehr_ , and neatly flip them for counterintelligence. No violence involved, that was his rule, and he managed to gather himself a group that believed in the same thing he did. Duties done out of fear were not genuine.

You could catch more flies with honey, after all.

Lieutenant Colonel Stephens agreed, and so they’d developed a much easier frame for getting an agent to flip. Crowley, however, needed to be freer to move, and so he often dipped in and out, picking up assignments and finishing them quickly so as to cement himself as valuable, but not the most reliable agent. Masterman understood his unique perspective more than most, Crowley thought.

“What about Chapman, then?” Crowley asked, long fingers splayed out over his own notes.

“Too temperamental. Volatile in the field, just as likely to flip to the Germans as he is to rob us blind.” Masterman made a face. “We’d have to be desperate. Robertson is behind me on that.”

“You are desperate,” Crowley reminded him. “We still haven’t cracked the Enigmas and we’re low on men willing to go deep.”

Masterman sighed again. He sounded like an old hound when he did it, so Crowley didn’t push him too often.

“Well, I’ll keep it in mind, should our numbers dwindle or an opportunity opens. Have we had word from the dead drops?”

“Nothing yet,” Crowley replied. “It’s getting harder to venture into the outskirts, what with the uptick in bombing runs. We’ll need to divert those, soon. Took out an underground station.”

“Agreed.” Masterman picked up the file again. “Have you heard news of other operatives?”

“No,” Crowley said, his eyes narrowing behind the dark glass of his spectacles. “When did this happen?”

“About two months ago, we began to get word that there seem to be inquiries being made at the old bookshops still operating within London. Three that we know of, but Glozier and Harmony are the only names we have. The other is too slippery to catch. Whoever he is, he’s good.” Masterman frowned. “They seem to be looking for occult books, at least that’s the snippet of rumors that we’ve heard. Seems to be the popular route for research on that end.”

Likely not a he at all, Crowley thought. You would think that humans would figure that gender wasn’t a marker of ability by now, but prejudice died hard. Then again, everyone had their blind sides. He sucked his teeth, contemplating that. Wouldn’t have been the first injustice he suffered whilst wearing a female shell, after all.

He’d been kicking around a long time, in all sorts of shapes and configurations. Anything that was considered different was to be abhorred. He returned to the matter at hand, however, resolving only to gloat if his hunch was correct.

Old bookshops. That brought up another wrench in the works. An Aziraphale shaped wrench, to be precise.

He hadn’t heard from the angel in a while. Not since…well. Masterman, however, seemed to take his thoughtful silence as a cue that their meeting was over. He reached out, and Crowley shook his hand.

“I’ll consider your opinion, Mr. Crowley. Do let me know if we have anything further. We’ll be in touch.”

“’Course,” Crowley said, rising to his feet. “The usual spots?”

“Mm.” Masterman turned to his papers once more, missing the shake of Crowley’s head as he took his leave.

Crowley strolled out of the building, human eyes sliding off him like he wasn’t there. Which—officially speaking, of course—he wasn’t.

* * *

Two weeks of careful snooping had caught him up to what was going on. Aziraphale, the bloody idiot, had decided to get himself into the business of double dealing, trying to play the Nazis against themselves. Glozier and Harmony weren’t particularly subtle, but Crowley had a feeling they wouldn’t need to be in order to catch the angel’s attention. It was that third, unknown player that was making his instincts go wild with the idea that there might be a plot in place to ruin his carefully threaded web of contacts and counterintelligence.

He had his own ways of eavesdropping, however, and he could lurk with the best of his species. It wasn’t long before he caught the runner going back and forth between A. Z. Fell & Co. and followed him back to his origin point, a squat one-and-a-half story house that looked to be an almost afterthought on the corner in Whitechapel.

Crowley made it a point to turn the lad onto legitimate work, because he was going to blow this operation wide open, if he had the chance. Meanwhile, he had to get a good look at these fellows.

Slithering was usually frowned upon, but Crowley was never one to abide by societal norms as his form melted into his less comfortable one. He climbed the drain pipe outside the building, sliding into a mouse’s entryway, left long ago by some poor rodent who’d been eaten by a cat—or even a human, in these days of tight rations.

He ignored the way his mind wandered at the mouse’s fate as he climbed along the attic, looking for a listening spot. He found better. The attic was a loft, and would give him a view of his quarry, if he were careful. His German had been getting sharper, but he was disappointed to find they spoke in English to each other.

Still, he lowered himself down onto the top of a china cabinet and watched, eyes unblinking. He found himself in a rather modest living space, if cramped. It had been carved out of what appeared to be a storage space; there was a cot and a wash stand, a cooking area with a small wood stove, and all around them, boxes that were being or had already been nailed shut.

“Almost done with the final box, Glozier?” said the taller of the pair. He was thin, almost spindly, with a hooked nose and rather cold eyes, though his expression was affable. This man, Crowley could tell, liked to promise things and be cruel in the name of giving people ‘what they want’.  Delving deeper, he found a twisted sort of joy in misunderstanding his fellow humans, deliberately, and withholding whatever it was they desired.

Hell would’ve liked him. Might still. The way things were going, it didn’t seem that Mr. Harmony was going to be really keen on changing his ways.

Glozier was portly, with the jowls of a man who clearly thought the rationing to be a funny English joke. Broad hands, broad shoulders, broad everything. Crowley tilted his head, watching. He huffed over boxes of what appeared to be books on divination, by varying authors of varying accuracy. Crowley did a quick inventory; none of the books were in particularly good condition. None of them had come from the angel’s shop, at least not in this box. He couldn’t smell the angel anywhere here.

Likely they would need to visit the angel’s shop themselves to get hold of any of Aziraphale’s books—and if they were lucky, a change of occupation was the only thing Aziraphale would give them. If they weren’t, the angel had shown himself to be unconsciously cruel about punishing those that impeded him, though he liked to think of himself as the good side.

He was just enough of a bastard to be interesting, in Crowley’s opinion, and that one was the only one that mattered.

Delving deeper, he tried to get at who their third was, but even then, he didn’t get far. Skimming surface wants and desires was easy; he could do that over a cup of coffee. It was easy, like getting a goldfish from an aquarium with one of those little feeder nets. It was enough to work with when creating low level temptations across the board.

They were Nazis, that much he could glean. Fanaticism always ordered the worldview in rigid lines. He could see it in how their thoughts worked, even though they were individuals, they still fell into identical, unthinking patterns.

Deeper desires tended to be buried, needing a bit of needling and prying on his part to bring them to the surface. It was too much work for a single person, and so he often avoided it.

Their desire to succeed in their mission placed this desire in the latter category, and Crowley was left drawing a blank, unless he wanted to appear in their midst and torture it out of them; he was hardly that kind of demon, however.

“We should get to the church,” Harmony said, flicking his flat brass-penny eyes in the direction of the clock ticking on the wall. “Fell will be waiting.”

“Let him wait,” Glozier said, his accent thicker than it should probably have been for him to work here, in England of all places. “Bastard is sanctimonious, might as well give him something to feel holier than thou about.”

“Glozier,” Harmony said. “You don’t like our new English friend?”

“Like him better when he’s gone.”

“Perhaps you should be the one to shoot him, then, mm?”

Crowley had heard enough. He’d been away and meddling with other affairs for too long, and the angel had gotten himself into a world of trouble. He slithered up the wall and out of the attic, dropping down and landing on his feet. He sprinted hell for leather, running to his Bentley that was parked around the corner. If he was quick, and very, very clever, he would make it.

* * *

He was very, very clever, but he was not quick enough. The shop was closed, the windows dark when he arrived. Crowley slammed his hands onto the Bentley’s wheel, and she grumbled low, as though in protest.

“Church, church. What church. _Which_ church, bless it all.”

Crowley racked his brain, trying to think of one that Aziraphale would deem suitable. There were oh so many in the city, but this would need to suit Aziraphale’s needs.

Privacy, quiet, out of the way. There was no public transportation after the blackout. He would need to walk. And while he didn’t tire, he certainly wouldn’t draw attention to himself by using a miracle to get there quickly.

Crowley turned his head on a swivel, taking his familiar surroundings in. He was, in fact, almost as intimately familiar with the street outside the angel’s book shop as he was with the contents inside. He knew all the dirty cracks and crevices, even knowing that they could be dirtier still, if not for the angel’s influence.

That road was the fastest way back to his flat in Mayfair. This road led to the patisserie that Aziraphale bought his buns from on the regular. This one led…to the river.

The river.

_Almost done with the final box, Glozier?_

They were planning to leave tonight, after presumably doing whatever nastiness they had in mind to Aziraphale, and taking his books in the bargain. Crowley’s lips lifted back from his teeth, more snarl than smile, though it was triumphant. He knew where they were heading. There was a church nearby the Quays in Southwark, small, quiet, out of the way. A small graveyard, a small parish that was constantly being argued over whether or not it should be gobbled up by one of the neighboring areas instead.

Stubborn and holding on, just like the angel. Old fashioned, too. It would appeal to Aziraphale’s sense of aesthetic.

“Shit.” Crowley revved the Bentley, roaring her down the street towards the bridge. He hoped he could make it in time.

* * *

Crowley spotted the church’s windows, blacked out as he rolled silently to a stop a block away. His lights were off, and he held a low profile, parked behind a building in an out of the way alley. He clapped his hat back onto his head, preparing to get out, when a flash of movement caught his eye.

A woman flitted through the graveyard, moving past the headstones with a purpose, caught only by the gaze of the moon before it slipped back behind a cloud.

Crowley hissed soft and low, unconscious of the noise that left him at the sight of her. He’d gloat later.

Climbing out of the Bentley, the air was sharp and cold, whipping at his clothing. He had a feeling it was because he was approaching the church of his own free will, instead of avoiding it like the plague. He didn’t apologize as he laid a hand on the wrought iron gate of the graveyard.

It didn’t smite him, and Crowley glanced upward, briefly.

Well, he was in this deep already, might as well jump with both feet. He stepped over the threshold.

His feet began to tingle, as though he’d lost circulation. The outside grounds weren’t bad, good for lurking, but not comfortable, not unless the church was abandoned. It was a warning, he knew, to not get too close to the church and the sanctified ground he stood on, but he had to. If asked, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to articulate it, much less have someone understand it. Well, either way.

He threaded his way through the gravestones, old and mossy and looking like broken teeth. The pauper’s graves left to go to soil while the war was on, unable to be tended like they ought out of fear for the safety of the living. He continued on, up towards the shadows of the church.

Frowning, he fought back the feeling of terror that scrabbled at his chest, a memory of fear. A memory of pain already inflicted, the deep hole in his chest where his Grace used to reside. He remembered his Fall; how could he not? Still, this fear was an echo, not the real thing—no, the real thing jabbered at him that the angel was in a world of trouble, consorting with Nazis in the middle of an embattled Britain. He pushed onward, right up to the church wall.

His feet took on the deep chill of someone experiencing frost bite.

What no one tells you about Heaven is that it isn’t warm and welcoming—that part is all your Grace, inside you, warming you with Her love from the inside out. No, Heaven without your Grace is cold, wracking you with a feeling like bitter winter, freezing from the inside out. Cold and clear like space, like the points between the stars. So many of them ended up in pits of boiling sulfur, simply because they’d been aching to get warm, any way they knew how.

Human souls are infused with Her grace. It was never an issue for them, from what Crowley understood from his rambling, half-drunken talks with Aziraphale.

He, however, felt like his teeth were going to start chattering.

Crowley hurried around to the doors, noting that they’d been left open a crack. He pressed his ear to it, listening, shifting from foot to foot without realizing it. His feet had regained some of their feeling, but it was painful. Almost a burning sensation, as though he were in a slowly heating saucepan.

He had very little time, and he had no idea if this would work or not. He squinted, shifting back and forth, trying to concentrate and plan at the same time his feet felt like they were on fire. He cast about himself, looking for a way out of this mess that would give him plausible deniability for his involvement.

Unfortunately, nothing came to mind.

“You can’t kill me!” Aziraphale’s voice was high, panicked, even though it was hardly a true death. “There’ll be _paperwork_.”

Ah, there it was. Time to do, not to think. Crowley snapped his fingers, throwing the door wide and scuttering inside, heedless of the way his feet burned. Well, almost.

“Ow! Ow-ow-ow! _Ow_!”

* * *

**[Three months later, the ruins of Balham Station]**

Crowley waved a hand in a minor miracle, after making sure that Aziraphale was gone. The angel’s scent faded down the tunnels, and he almost rose to go after it. Instead, he quietly closed the door of his present hidey-hole, built to keep him safe from the exact angel that had just taken his leave.

He sucked his teeth, thoughtfully, even as he didn’t rise. For one, his feet had stopped their infernal aching for the first time since he’d set foot in the now ruined church. For another, he’d been cared for by Aziraphale, his feet doctored as no one else alive could ever do, could have _known_ to do. It had been done without recompense, without Aziraphale allowing Crowley the chance to even attempt to choke out thanks for the help.

It had been done out of…

No, no, it **_hadn’t_**.

Crowley gave his head a shake. He glanced down at the tops of his feet, long and well-formed, save for the black scales that were beginning to spread. They started from where his ankle met his foot, dotting down over the tops of his feet until they disappeared beneath the bandages hiding his hurts that were healing. They encased his Achilles tendon, peeks of pale skin vanishing as scales took their place.

It was defensive, perhaps, that his vessel attempted to heal this way, now.

Where Aziraphale didn’t have to see.

“Bless it all,” he muttered, pouring himself another drink.

He could still feel the angel’s hands, firm and gentle on his ankles and feet. The scales he’d grown hadn’t been able to prevent him from feeling the phantom pressure.

“Bless it _all_ ,” he muttered again.

It was going to be a long decade.

* * *

It will not necessarily be what you want; it will, however, be what you _need_.

* * *

The Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew were a sight, even for a plant lover like Tony. He hadn’t often had a chance to come and see the place; no one he’d ever known would have wanted to go with him. Now, however, he was bundled up and waiting outside the Elizabeth Gate for Ezra to accompany him.

The beginning of fall came with an unusual bite to it, leaving many visitors in heavier coats than they normally would carry with them to the grounds. Tony himself had always been a little sensitive to the cold, so he’d tucked a hat and gloves into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. A warm sweater beneath that, along with his blue jeans and sturdy boots meant that many people avoided him.

He didn’t think Ezra would, though.

It felt…right, meeting halfway. Like they’d done that many times before, though if they had, it must have been in Tony’s dreams.

Going out, enjoying each other’s company. It was almost like it had been going on for years. Tony always found something to talk about, and when he felt he couldn’t, Ezra didn’t seem to mind the comfortable silence that fell over them, like a warm blanket insulating them from their own loneliness.

He might be…

He pushed the thought from his head, determined to just enjoy the day. That was the plan, right?

Introspection was for when he was falling asleep, alone, not the middle of the day, not when he had—

“There you are,” Ezra said, and Tony turned, his smile going a little lopsided when he caught sight of the old wool coat Ezra was wearing. His surprise must have registered on his face, because Ezra paused, studying him. “What is it?”

It shouldn’t be strange, seeing him in the coat. It was cold, after all. But there was an unsettling feeling of wrongness about it. Like it was correct, but in the way that furniture in one’s house was in place, just tilted a half-inch to the left and you kept stubbing your toe.

“Nothing,” Tony said, a spike of brief discomfort behind his eyes settling after a moment. “You look good.”

Ezra pinked, glancing down, but a pleased smile toyed at the corners of his mouth. “Well! I tried.”

He fiddled with his coat, revealing that he was wearing khaki trousers, a button up, and a warm sweater over that. He looked positively pastoral, and Tony was aware of the contrast they made. An odd couple to be sure; he didn’t mind, seeing the wind ruffle the white-blond curls on Ezra’s head.

“You succeeded,” Tony said, offering Ezra his arm. “I got our passes already. Shall we?”

The warm, solid presence of Ezra sliding his arm into Tony’s made the discomfort melt away, and they strolled through the gate, arm in arm.

* * *

“I had no idea this place was so large,” Ezra said, as they strolled through the Princess of Wales Conservatory. “I’ve never had occasion to go.”

It was much warmer in here, designed to keep the plants contained within much livelier, and they’d shed their jackets for the moment. Tony had them draped over one arm; his other hand wound in Ezra’s.

“I’ve been once or twice,” Tony replied, breathing in the earthy scent of all the greenery mixed together. “School trips. Haven’t found my way back here in a while, though.”

“Too busy bossing yourself around?” Ezra said, a twinkle in his eye.

“No one to go with,” he said, surprising himself with his honesty.

Ezra blinked as well, as though the confession had taken him aback, too. After a moment, though, there was a sunny smile from the man beside him, and Tony swore the temperature went up another couple of degrees.

“Well, now you do.”

Tony laughed, a happy sound that escaped from him almost like it had been pulled from him without his permission. Ezra went a bright pink, but the smile didn’t falter, and Tony didn’t want it to.

“I suppose I do.” He squeezed Ezra’s hand. “How about some lunch?”

“Oh, yes.” Ezra nodded. “I hear the Orangery Restaurant is lovely this time of year.”

“Your wish is my command, then,” Tony said, handing over Ezra’s coat as they made their way towards the exit.

* * *

“—and so, he stiffed me on the engine. So now, I require half payment up front,” Tony said, sipping his prosecco. “You live and learn.”

Ezra had been listening, rapt, as Tony talked. After a moment, he picked up a spoon full of his soup, brought it to his lips, and hummed.

“Well…well, fuck him. He didn’t deserve you.” Ezra popped the bite of food into his mouth, blinking at Tony as Tony’s mouth fell open.

“You—” Tony spluttered, the wine going to his head. He started to chuckle, turning into a snort of laughter that wasn’t going to stop. He dropped his head into his hands, giggling helplessly.

“Really, Tony,” Ezra huffed. “What’s—”

“I can’t believe you said _fuck_.” Tony looked up at him, tears in his eyes. “You didn’t seem like the type.”

“Well, I can be, when moved to do it,” Ezra said, still a touch offended, though now there was a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Tony had a very vivid imagination, something he’d never been able to shake, even as an adult, and suddenly the word took on much more meaning than as a swear word. His mind’s eye flashed to the bed in his flat, Ezra splayed out beneath him, hands fisted in the dark sheets. His head thrown back, throat exposed, Tony’s hands roaming, making him writhe.

The sound of that word, rolling off Ezra’s tongue, was almost blasphemous in such an innocent way. It was even more so in this context. He could feel the blood thundering in his ears.

Would Ezra—

Whoa. Whoa, now, Tony, he chided himself. Pump your brakes. You’re not gonna—

“Cat have your tongue now?” Ezra asked, popping another spoonful of soup into his mouth. The way he said it made Tony’s eyes snap to Ezra’s own. There was a slow smile there, around the spoon; it was luxurious, almost like it had been crafted only for Tony to see it. It was exhilarating and terrifying and it was almost slow motion in the way that Tony realized that not only was he being teased…

He was being flirted with.

He swallowed, hard, his ears going pink as the laughter died, though the warmth didn’t leave him. Ezra blinked, after a moment, his face fell, like Tony hadn’t passed a test. Disappointment flashed across his features, quickly hidden. He realized it was because he hadn’t said anything, just gaped at Ezra like a particularly stupid beached fish.

Which, perhaps, he was.

“You realize now,” Tony said, scrambling to save that clever, utterly mischievous look on Ezra’s face. “That you’re just going to encourage me to try and drag it out of you.”

He reached out, covering Ezra’s hand with his own, leaning in.

“Well, then,” Ezra said. “Maybe you’ll have to work harder than you think.”

Tony decided it was hardly a problem. Especially since that pleased smile was back in full force.

“Dessert?”

“Ooh.”

* * *

Lunch left him feeling decidedly giddy, and he didn’t think it was the wine he’d drunk. Ezra laced their fingers once they were outside, their steps matched even though Tony’s legs were longer than Ezra’s. He rubbed his thumb lightly against Ezra’s, feeling the swoop of his stomach as he did.

“Not bored, are you?” he asked, hesitant.

It was always the way Tony’s flings went. He got close, and then began asking questions. It was why he didn’t like feeling this way. It made him antsy, his skin prickling with anticipation as Ezra looked over at him.

“Why, of course,” Ezra said. He gave his hand a fond squeeze. “It’s not often someone takes me out and I enjoy myself so thoroughly, in fact.”

Tony nearly stopped. Ezra hadn’t seemed irritated by his question, instead taking it as a check in for him—which it had been, partly.

“W-well, did you want to go see the waterlily house?” Tony asked.

“Absolutely,” Ezra said. “I’d been reading up on the gardens, and I saw they have so many things to see. I don’t know how much we’ll be able to get to today.”

“Well…” Tony glanced over at him. “There’s always next time, you know.”

“Oh, well, I couldn’t go by myself—”

“Who said you would be?” Tony said. “I seem to remember someone offering to escort me when I wanted to come out here.”

Ezra clamped his mouth shut, his expressive mouth twitching as he realized that Tony was taking him seriously. Tony could feel the hand in his begin to tremble. They moved aside on the widely spaced path to allow other people to pass, finding a nearby bench. Tony guided Ezra to sit, sitting next to him.

“Does that…bother you?”

“Yes!” Ezra blurted. Tony reeled back, as though the other man had struck him, but wide eyes turned to him. “I mean, no. But it should and it doesn’t and that’s—”

“Ezra,” Tony said, taking the other’s hand in his. Ezra’s mouth shut with a snap as he looked down at their joined fingers. “You realize that I like you, right?”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Ezra said, clutching Tony’s hand with both of his. “I don’t…”

“I don’t, either.” Tony said. He looked away, suddenly wishing he had his sunglasses on. The fall day was crisp and clear, not really needing them, but he wished he had them all the same. “I don’t do this. I never felt the need to make the time. It didn’t seem important.”

“Does it…does it now?” Ezra asked, as though lost.

“It does,” Tony replied. “Is that strange?”

“No,” Ezra breathed. “I just needed to be sure.”

“Sure of wh—” Tony’s words died, replaced by Ezra’s mouth against his. It was chaste, though it was electric, the plush feeling of Ezra’s mouth against his own. Tony sighed out, a shaky noise, and Ezra pulled back, only to have Tony follow, with another chaste kiss against his mouth.

“Tony,” Ezra said, something fond in his voice. Tony pulled back, eyes half-lidded and hardly satisfied with the taste he’d just gotten. “We’re in public.”

“I can change that,” Tony said. Was that desperate? Tony decided he didn’t care, his fingers still clenched on Ezra’s jacket.

Ezra gave a laugh, one that was infectious, as Tony felt himself chuckling along, giddy.

“Thank you, for indulging me,” Ezra said.

“I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more.” Tony found it to be true. He glanced at Ezra, who was smiling. “So, the water lilies?”

“I’d like that.” Ezra said.

They took their time. It seemed to be the right thing to do.

* * *

Tony locked the door to his apartment, breathing in and stretching. It had been a long day full of walking, and he still felt energized. He pulled out his phone, tapping out a text to Ezra that he’d gotten home safely, then tucked it into his pocket.

He needed to see to the greenhouse before he finally rolled into bed, but he was still awake, buzzing with an eventful day. He hadn’t been able to go anywhere without Ezra’s hand in his, pointing out various flowers, pleased when Ezra did the same, giving him tidbits he’d read here or there. It was, by all accounts, a rather fantastic day. He couldn’t remember when he’d had one of those.

Now, he slipped his jacket off and prepped to head up to the greenhouse on the roof.

His phone rang, and he answered without looking at the caller id. “Tony’s Restorations.”

“Hello, Tony,” Ezra said. “I just got your text. Are you busy?”

“Not really,” Tony said, a smile forming even as he bustled about in his front room. “About to go tend to the greenhouse.”

“Well, I just wanted to…I don’t know, really. I wanted to say I’d had a nice time,” Ezra said. Tony could almost see his fingers twisting over themselves, but he didn’t mind. This was a part of getting to know each other.

“I did too,” he said. His voice was low, warm as he puttered around straightening his mess back down to the dull roar of controlled chaos. “We should do something soon.”

“I’d…I’d like that,” Ezra said.

“Come on, you can talk to me while I water the orchids,” Tony said as he headed toward the hall that led upstairs.

He stopped upon reaching his hallway. It was wild and full of life, the plants here tall and jungle like, making him feel safe and enclosed. The lush greenery of it always pleased him, making him feel like he was back in time, to something simple. Roots and water and good earth. He could understand that, when he couldn’t understand anything else.

It was dark now, the lights set on a dimmer so that he didn’t waste electricity.

He could smell…something off. It was the heavy, cloying scent of the forest floor, as though he’d been out hiking and brought the woods back here, mulching the floor. Perhaps it was leftover from the gardens, but that had been a clean, natural scent. This smelt like he’d churned up loam, decay wafting from his hallway like he’d opened a Tupperware full of rotted vegetation. It hadn’t been noticeable until he’d opened the door.

He reached out, flipping on the lights.

Every single one of his plants was dead. Withered, their leaves crumpled on the floor, gleaming wet in a slurry of greenish brown sludge around his boots, mushed and collapsed in on themselves. Tony froze, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

Each and every one of these plants had been alive when he’d left this morning. He’d checked them himself. They looked like they’d been dead in a hothouse for a week, left to rot.

“Tony?” Ezra said, far away. He realized he’d lowered the phone from his ear. He brought the phone back up to hear Ezra better. “Is everything quite all right?”

“I don’t…know,” he said. “I may need to call you back.”

“Are you in trouble?” Ezra asked, his voice going thin with worry.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I can’t explain.”

“I’m coming over,” Ezra said.

“I can’t ask—”

“If you need help, I’m coming,” Ezra said. “What’s going on?”

“All my plants,” Tony said, softly. “They’re dead.”

* * *

Out on the street, a streetlamp flickered. Hastur looked up at the flat and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a good vacation this has been. Almost 14k words written and two things updated. Hopefully I can write some more tomorrow, but I've been mostly just taking it easy and catching up on my sleep. (Much like Crowley, honestly.)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> \------
> 
> Sir John Cecil Masterman: His highest-profile role was as Vice-Chancellor of the University of Oxford, but he was also well-known as chairman of the Twenty Committee, which during the Second World War ran the Double-Cross System, controlling double agents in Britain. 
> 
> Each of the agents Crowley names did exist.
> 
> \------
> 
> Juan Pujol Garcia, nicknamed Garbo, was fucking phenomenally good at bullshitting the Germans. He eventually spun a spy network out of whole cloth, feeding the Germans information gleaned from a variety of public sources, including a tourist guide to Britain, train timetables, cinema newsreels, and magazine advertisements. He eventually established himself as a trustworthy agent and immediately defected to Britain. He was rejected by the British three separate times, until MI5 realized he was misleading the enemy into chasing a convoy that wasn't there. He was fanatically anti-fascist and devoted himself to royally fucking over the Axis in any way he could. Eventually, the Germans were paying the wages of his non-existent spy network, and he was collecting the pay packets for some twenty plus fake spies. This madlad was so good at what he did, he convinced them that one had fallen ill and died, and then _collected the widow's pension for a dead spy's wife that didn't exist_. He and his handler produced so many well-written and lengthy communications that the Germans were overwhelmed and didn't made any further attempts to recruit more spies.
> 
> \------
> 
> Edward Arnold Chapman was an English criminal and wartime spy. During the Second World War he offered his services to Nazi Germany as a spy and subsequently became a British double agent. His British Secret Service handlers codenamed him Agent Zigzag in acknowledgement of his rather erratic personal history. Another madlad, who ended up on both sides of the war, this guy was a bastard of the highest order, and Masterman's assessment of him in the story is correct.
> 
> After Operation Overlord he was sent back to Britain to report on the accuracy of the V-1 weapon and the Hedgehog antisubmarine weapon. He parachuted into Cambridgeshire on 29 June 1944 and went to London. Here he consistently reported to the Germans that the bombs were hitting their central London target, when in fact they were undershooting. Perhaps as a result of this disinformation, the Germans never corrected their aim, with the end result that most bombs landed in the south London suburbs or the Kent countryside, doing far less damage than they otherwise might have done.
> 
> During this period he was also involved in doping of dogs in greyhound racing and was associating with criminal elements in the London's West End night clubs. He was also indiscreet about the sources of his income and so MI5, being unable to control him, dismissed him on 2 November 1944. Chapman was given a £6,000 payment from MI5 and was allowed to keep £1,000 of the money the Germans had given him. He was granted a pardon for his pre-war activities and was reported by MI5 to have been living "in fashionable places in London always in the company of beautiful women of apparent culture".
> 
> \------
> 
> The Double-Cross system was so successful, in fact, that it was discovered after the war's end that all enemy spies had either been recruited by Britain -- or in one memorable case, had committed suicide. There were no free roaming Axis spies on British soil. (Sounds a bit like a demonic miracle to me, yes?)
> 
> \------
> 
> The church in which Crowley and Aziraphale confront the Nazis actually, in my headcanon, was struck by a bomb in real life. The chapel at St John Horsleydown was destroyed in an air raid, and later was absorbed into another parish, almost as though it had never been. It was a Hawksmoor church, as called for in the script book, and parts of the church remained in use after it was severely damaged by a bomb on 20 September 1940 during the Blitz. In 1952 only the west, north and east walls were standing. I faffed about with the dates, but it's as accurate as I'm likely to get with what research I've been able to do.
> 
> \------
> 
> For reference, Crowley's reflection on his predicament after the church is a direct call back to [Gethsemane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19189150/chapters/45762091), something I wrote a bit ago in regards to a headcanon I had about how that went. I consider this canon for almost all my verses, but then, I'm a sucker for symbolism. 


End file.
